


daisy, daisy

by qr_code



Category: Half Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: (it's goofier than the tags make it sound), Angst, Body Horror, Existential Crisis, Familial Relationships, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mature for gore, Multi, Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 64,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24106918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qr_code/pseuds/qr_code
Summary: Gordon is dead.Then, he isn't dead.A proper 'Schrodinger's Scientist' -- a man between life and death, nothing more than an experiment for something outside the box.[Also known as; the Groundhog's Day AU. The one with Bill Murray. Unfortunately, Bill Murray isn't in this work. Yet.]tumblr: qr--code
Relationships: Benrey/Gordon Freeman, Bubby/Dr. Coomer (Half-Life), Gordon Freeman & Everyone
Comments: 717
Kudos: 2035





	1. there is a flower within my heart

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing something for fun that's multi-chaptered! if you have any tips, i would love to hear them!
> 
> [edit 8/5: i wanna make it clear to new readers that this fic was not meant to be nearly as large as it became, and due to that, it starts off pretty slow. rip past me]
> 
> [edit 10/19: not dead! just dummy busy. also, since ive gathered a little collection of anons over the months -- disclaimer! this work has been written without any outline, without beta-ing, on the notes app of an android, by a busy highschooler. it's mega cringe and edgy. there are plotholes and dropped leads. i am simply vibing in an anonymous environment, trying to learn from what i write, so i can never promise perfect work -- there'd be no learning if it was. you're more then welcome to criticize and mock me or whatever, but let's make it a learning experience, okie folks?]

The first time Gordon Freeman died, he was shot point-blank in the back of the head, kneeling on the cold floor, pose not unlike a criminal waiting for their executioner to shut out the lights.

"All four of you, hold still, or I'll fill his brain with lead." the soldier had said, lightly prodding the back of Gordon's neck with the cold metal barrel of his shotgun.

From the other side of the corridor, his four colleagues, Bubby, Benrey, Coomer, and Tommy stood, staring, watching.

Benrey stepped forwards and Gordon had felt a burning pain centralized at the rear of his cranium that spread forward, overtaking his vision. He couldn't see. Oh, god, he couldn't see.

Red, green, blue, black, then, finally, white, slowly turning towards a grey.

He tried yelling, cursing out Benrey one last time, but the light was so _bright_ , he couldn't focus on anything other than that grey, endless void. 

When Gordon Freeman died the first time, the most important experiment of his scientific career began.

Gordon opened his eyes, and as he turned his head from left to right, parts of the world began to reappear around him, piece by piece, starting with the parts closest to him, then continuing outwards, small details taking longer than the general shape. Trees dotted the horizon, details generating piece by piece.

Then, he was outside the gates of Black Mesa, in his lab coat once again.

His hair was clean of all grime.

The crack in the left lens of his glasses was repaired.

Miraculously, his right hand was back.

Was this a blessing or a curse?

Gordon wheezed in a way best described as _pathetic_ , leaning against the concrete in front of him. He really, _really_ feels like he just experienced something he shouldn't have. Was he dead? If he wasn't dead, where was he? Squeezing his eyes shut, the corners of his vision blurred once more, and he held his breath for a teetering second, expecting more mindfuckery. The mindfuckery this time, though, was just what Gordon realized was the beginning of a migraine.

He stopped to catch his breath, then began to wait.

They'll be here any moment. They haven't left him yet, why would they now?

"... Guys?"

An awkward cough came from his left, and Gordon turned to a security guard leaving his shift, lit cigarette in hand. Does he smoke?

Gordon stumbled forward and grabbed the guard by the shoulders, squeezing as tightly as possible. Seething with his usual rage, Gordon glared up at the man, saying through gritted teeth, "You absolute fucking _shit_ , you let me _die_." 

The guard shoved him back into the cement, knocking his head against the pavement. Hand on the gun holster around his waist (wow, Gordon, way to tease death right after dying), the guard spat out, "The fucks wrong with you?"

Oh, whoops. Gordon sat up on his knees, getting ready to formulate some sort of apology (how do you apologize for this situation? Sorry I was gearing up to strangle you like a chicken?), but the guard was already on his way, muttering something about vaccinating the scientists here for rabies.

Honestly, Gordon wouldn't have made that mistake if it weren't for the fact that all the guards looked almost exactly the same. Which... was odd, admittedly, but wasn't the issue at hand.

He was outside Black Mesa again.

This is what he wanted, wasn't it?

He wanted out more than anything else.

_Actually_ , Gordon corrected himself, _you wanted to get out with the others_.

Were the others really worth it, though? All they had done was make his life hell. But, despite his resistance, Gordon stepped into the gate. Once he had entered this mess, he wasn't going to leave until he completed it correctly. 'Correctly' being 'with the others, alive'.

He entered the corridors of Black Mesa, retracing his steps. Was the science team back where he left them? God, that would take hours to get to! And why was everyone in the halls acting so _casual_? Did they have any idea that they could die at any moment by a freak alien attack? 'Freak alien attack' was _not_ what you should want to be written as your cause of death.

He picked up his pace. Gordon had to get back to the others, preferably with another HEV suit, before something happened to them. Perhaps he was acting a tad bit neurotic, considering that the science team was entirely composed of adults (or, people that appeared as if they were adults, at the very least), but he couldn't help the stirring sick feeling in his gut. He was, by the very definition of the word, _worried_ about them. Yes, all of them, though he'd never admit it out loud.

The first door on the way to the lab came into Gordon's vision as he rounded the corner. Strangely enough, there were _still_ two guards there, waiting for him, ready to unlock the doors.

Gordon gave them a once-over, measuring up whether or not they could be secret aliens here to kill him, or maybe erase his memory like the Black Mesa Men in Black. "You guys do know that all hell is breaking loose down in the test chamber, right? You _need_ to get out of here."

The guards paid him no mind. Alright! So much for him caring about others! He stomped up to the glass doors, ready to dart through the second they began to open.

"Hey."

Gordon whirled around on his heels. He knew that voice. Never thought he'd be _thankful_ to hear it, maybe, but there's a first for everything. Either way, his friends had come for him.

"Can I see your passport?"

God help his patience. It was alright. He should have expected that Benrey would start with that. What was Gordon thinking, did he assume he'd get a, you know, ' _sorry I got you shot?'_ Forgive and forget, Gordon.

He wasn't going to forgive or forget, but for now, all he wanted was the others, who were currently nowhere to be seen.

Time for the most strenuous game Gordon has ever played -- getting information out of Benrey.

Gordon poked Benrey in the security vest with his index finger. 

"I'm going to give you ten seconds to show me where the others are." Gordon was trying to seem headstrong, maybe a bit intimidating, but without the HEV suit, he just seemed a bit stupid, provoking not one, but two security guards.

"Whoa," Benrey said, utterly unimpressed, "Are you threatening me?"

"Yeah, I think I am."

" _Tchh_. Scary. Too bad I don't know what you're talking about. Uh, passport?" Benrey grabbed Gordon's hand and pushed it back to its owner.

"You do _too_ know who I'm talking about! The science team! Y'know," He mocked Coomer's voice, "'Don't fuck with the science team!'"

No signs of recognition showed on Benrey's face. Not that anything ever showed on his face, besides the occasional smug aura. Which was odd, but wasn't the current focus.

Benrey shuffled to the other security guard, leaned in, and muttered something that sounded uncannily like, "Is this guy nuts, or what?"

Why did everything have to be such a fucking _chore_?

"Fine! Fine," Gordon said, "I'll find them myself, I guess! Join us when you fucking _feel like it_ , jackass!"

He paused, then added on, "And, by the way, thanks for getting me _shot_." The addition was a bit petty, but Gordon still felt proud of himself for saying it.

Gordon went to the blue glass door blocking his path. It was still closed. He tried the handle. Locked. Maybe if he just shook it hard enough...

Benrey wedged his way between Gordon and the door.

"Uh, no. You haven't provided me the proper, uh, credentials. Passport. And, also, you're making my buddy back there a little nervous."

"Yeah, and let me guess, you're gonna follow me around _again_?"

Benrey grinned lopsidedly.

"... Yeaaaah. Just gotta make sure you don't do anything bad. Steal, brutalize, whatever."

Gordon's head ached.

\----

They walked down the corridors of Black Mesa together, side by side, Gordon with his eyes focused on the walls ahead of them, Benrey with his eyes flickering back and forth between Gordon and whatever was closest.

Footsteps echoed down the hall and back to them, filling the silence with the clacking of dress shoes against linoleum floors. Get to the science team, continue their course. His plan, though vague, was clear. The only wrench currently thrown into said plan was his colleague's (colleague? was that what he was referring to Benrey as now?) refusal to assist him in said plan.

Gordon still had that migraine, and being stuck with Benrey wasn't helping. Was he just supposed to be calm next to the guy who got him killed not more than forty-five minutes ago?

"Why are you acting like this?" Benrey inquired.

Gordon furrowed his brow. "Acting like _what_? Angry? I'm acting angry because I'm angry."

" _Jeez_ , no need to get defensive. Maybe you wouldn't have to be so defensive in the first place if you had just brought, oh, you know, your passport?"

" _God, if I could have just strangled you when I had the chance...!_ "

"It wouldn't have done anything."

Gordon scoffed. "It would have done something. 'Something' being 'making me feel better about being stuck with _you_.'"

As the two turned the corner, Gordon lifted his glasses to rest on top of his head and massaged the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb. Please, god, he just wanted some sense back into his surroundings, not to play Benrey's stupid game.

He never would give him a straight answer -- always mumbling and dodging the question. Did Black Mesa have a polygraph anywhere? _That_ would have made an interesting experiment. That's right, using tax dollars to force this rando to genuinely and honestly respond to a question (of course, Gordon was well aware the polygraph most likely wouldn't work on Benrey, due to the fact that out of the signs that a polygraph scans, respiratory rate, sweat, heart rate, Benrey had never shown a visible change. In any other situation, the thought of ' _your companion doesn't breath_ ' would have been worrying to Gordon, but currently, it just frustrated him that he very much couldn't effectively strangle Benrey. Shame).

_"Hello!!"_

Gordon nearly dropped his glasses, putting them back on his face as quickly as he could. He ran forward, face to face with none other than Tommy. Fantastic timing, because Gordon was sure he was going to do something dumb stuck with that doofus behind them. But here was Tommy, his saving grace yet again. Gordon really ought to start keeping track of times like these, perhaps he'd get Tommy a Beyblade for every time he had saved his ass.

He threw his arms around Tommy's torso. Maybe it was a bit of an intrusion of personal space, but could you really blame him? Gordon was happy. Really, really happy.

"Uh, sir," Tommy tapped the top of Gordon's head, knocking him out of whatever joy he was experiencing, "You give great hugs, but this is breaking standard Black Mesa safety procedures!"

Gordon immediately let go of Tommy, straightening his coat.

Benrey coughed behind him. " _Little w_ _eirdo creepy dude_ ," he said, very inconspicuously under his breath.

Throwing a glare to the guard, Gordon turned back. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I forgot about those rules. I'm just happy to see you, Tommy." Gordon opted for a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Where's Coomer and Bubby?"

Tommy stared. Where was his hat?

"They're getting the test chamber ready!" He paused. "... How do you know my name, Mr. Freeman? We've never worked together!"

_Huh_? 

Gordon felt his migraine pulse in the front of his skull. "... But, the resonance cascade...?" He slumped.

"What're you talking about, Mr. Freeman?"

"The resonance cascade."

"I'm - I'm not sure what you mean by that, but I think you should get to the test chamber!"

"... The science team?"

"Mr. Freeman, are you alright? You're not making any sense."

Gordon Freeman's entire plan was swept out from under his feet, and he felt like he was falling apart with along with it.

"Whoa, buddy." Benrey grabbed his arm, but Gordon was too busy sinking to the floor.

Tommy wouldn't lie.

They don't remember him.

Did he die?

Was this purgatory?

Was it all a dream?

Did he have to suffer through everything all over again?

What happened to the original science team?

Were they alright?

Where were they?

Where was he?

_Was any of this real_?

Gordon slid to the floor, held up by Benrey's hand on his arm, and put his head in his hands. His brain felt like soup, and, somehow, Gordon felt more tired than he ever had before he got shot.

Tommy crouched down to his level and shook his knee with urgency.

"Mr. Freeman?"

Gordon raised his head from his hands, hair falling from the elastic where he dug his fingers into his scalp. He gritted his teeth, just like he had at the doors of Black Mesa, and asked,

"Is any of this real?"

Tommy looked at him with big eyes.

"You need to get to the test chamber, Mr. Freeman!"

Yeah.

Yeah, the test chamber.

Tommy didn't show any response to his short-lived freakout. Gordon wasn't sure what implications he should take from that. He either didn't care, or didn't register it. Gordon, being the scientist that he was, used the power of elimination to find his answer.

He rose to his feet, shaking Benrey's hand away. The guard simply turned away, seemingly pretending that he didn't see what had just happened. Good. That was for the best.

Gordon could feel the weight of Benrey's hand, could smell coffee from the break room, could hear the urgency in Tommy's voice, could taste the blood in his mouth after he got shot -- sorry, after he chewed on his lip.

It had to be real. He thought, therefore he was. Cogito ergo sum.

The words bounced around in his head like the screensavers on the PCs at MIT, from back when he was in college. He wasn't sure if he had really gone to college at MIT anymore. But, did it matter? If he had the memories ( _the script_ , someone in his mind told him), then he could get the job done. The catch was, Gordon didn't really want to get the job done.

He put his hands in his lab coat pockets and continued to walk. Benrey followed on his heels, but this time, he didn't say anything.

He entered the locker room, and like an actor in a play, said his line without hesitation. "Hello, Dr. Coomer."

Coomer turned from his locker and smiled a friendly grin, rosy cheeks (Gordon had always thought Coomer would have made a fantastic Santa Claus. He seemed to like children, as well, considering his response to Joshua's photo -- oh, god, what did this all mean for Josh...) raising. "Ah, hello Gordon! Another day, another dollar!"

Gordon nodded, mouth pressed in a thin line, and replied just as he was supposed to. "Yeah, that's what we say here at Black Mesa."

Coomer laughed and patted Gordon on the shoulder, his strength making Gordon stumble. The gesture would have been almost fatherly in nature, but Gordon only preceived it as hollow, _empty_.

"Good luck in the chamber, Gordon!" Oh, he would. Something else was going to be tested this time 'round, though.

He sluggishly climbed into the HEV suit, hydraulic locks pressing into place around his limbs.

The suit always felt a little tight when he first put it on. At first, Gordon chalked it up to have gaining more weight since when he was first moved to this sector of Black Mesa, but, now, the weight on all sides felt more like something suppressing rather than protecting him.

_Once you're in the suit, you don't come out._ He staggered, getting used to the extra weight. He felt the weight, therefore he was.

Benrey stood, unmoving at the other side of the room, arms crossed and back propped up against the wall. He was watching Gordon's every move.

"Aren't you going to tell me to put on a HEV suit?" Benrey pushed, and for a moment, Gordon almost believed that he remembered the first time they did this together. But, just like earlier, no registration of his words showed on Benrey's face.

Turning his arm, adjusting to the suit, Gordon replied, "You wouldn't do it anyways."

"Yeah. I don't take orders from you."

Gordon grinded his teeth. "Then who do you take orders from?"

Benrey had already begun to leave the room, a half-hearted ' _you know_ ' noise serving as his reply.

\----

The rest of the act played out as expected.

Go down the elevator (with Benrey, of course, still asking where his _fucking_ passport was. Unlike the first round, though, Gordon didn't humour him with much of a reply).

Meet Bubby (Bubby, the hardass, was the same as ever, grilling Gordon about not having his passport for some fucking reason).

Watch Bubby crawl through broken computers (and get told to shut the fuck up by both Bubby and Benrey. What a double hit combo. He wasn't even saying anything).

Enter the test chamber (with Benrey, naturally).

"Hello?"

Gordon could see Tommy leaning up to the viewing window, waving at them from above, with Coomer and Bubby standing not too far behind. Something in Gordon's chest ached to call out to his friends. That word was a bit inaccurate now, though, wasn't it? They were barely acquaintances, much less the same level of buddy-buddy that they were before, even after they did, y'know, let his arm get cut off. Live and let learn, but don't blame others for the lessons they teach you. Even if the lesson involves the loss of a limb.

They spoke in the same awe as before of Gordon's missing passport, and Gordon did his job.

Climb the latter, wait for Benrey to catch up, press the button, climb back down the latter. It was all practically muscle memory. How? He had only done this once.

He grabbed the handles of the test sample. 

"I _told_ you not to touch anything," Benrey called. Gordon pointedly ignored him.

Benrey grabbed him. "Are you even listening to me?" Gordon shoved him off.

Tommy audibly struggled for the microphone over the speakers. "Mr. Freeman, you're pushing it too fast!"

In response, Gordon shoved the metal hunk of... whatever the test sample was... forward and quickly as he feasibly could.

" _Dr. Freeman_!"

The metal connected with the laser, and the mechanical arms stretched down and inwards. The science team shouted over the mic, asking, "What the hell did you _do_ , Gordon?"

If he was being entirely honest, he wasn't sure. Gordon wasn't sure what happened when he deviated from the script.

The light from the electricity turn a neon green, and Gordon recalled a scene from his first round: Bubby falling into the test chamber, then collapsing. He wasn't even too close to the flickering electricity. What would happen if Gordon pushed it a little further?

Gordon had a problem, and he needed to fix it. If this was real, he didn't want to live through all the pain and struggle all over again, and if it wasn't real, then he needed to prove it, as a scientist does with their theories.

He stepped closer and closer to the flickering, shining light and felt a rough grip through the arm of his HEV suit.

"Man, what're you _doing_?" Benrey attempted to wrench Gordon away from the electricity, tugging him back to the wall.

Gordon turned on his heel and clocked Benrey straight in the jaw.

" _That's_ for getting me _shot_!" Petty, Gordon.

Gordon stepped back, bent at the knees, and ran to the test sample, leaping on top of it. Somewhere, maybe back at one of the awful college parties that he rarely got invited to, Gordon had heard that electrocution was the most painful way to die. Time to put that theory to test.

The last thing he heard before leaping directly into the center of the light was the panicked screams of his friends (friends?). Somehow, that was more of an emotional goodbye than the last time he died. At least they had the sympathy to try and stop it this time, no?

As it turns out, Gordon didn't die from the electricity, but was rather burnt to a sad little pile of ash before he could even fall. It was the worst pain he had ever experienced, but only lasted a second, so the trade-off was rather fair.

Red, green, blue, black, then, finally, white, slowly turning towards a grey.

Gordon, somehow, heard a mocking voice echo clearly in his mind.

" _Boo- ring!_ "


	2. planted one day by a glancing dart, planted by daisy bell

" _ Boo- ring _ !"

The fuck?

Gordon was suffering, and  _ someone _ had the audacity to call it... boring?

... Fair. It probably was. All anxiety and depression. Boohoo, nerd, you can find that practically everywhere nowadays! The world has existential crisis out the ass without you adding to it!

The world was grey, empty, and Gordon was getting a little impatient. Wasn't something going to happen?

Yes, something was happening. The ground below him appeared in layers, starting with the dusty brown of the dirt, concrete foundation, then white linoleum. Walls surrounded him, cutting off the seemingly endless horizon, which he was thankful for. Objects, furniture, popped into existence one by one. With his surroundings slowly coming in, Gordon noticed two things -- one, this was undoubtedly a Black Mesa break room, two, Gordon was lying, fetal position, on the cold floor.

The last thing to load in was a poster, directly in front of him, of a cat, holding onto a tree branch, with the words " _ HANG IN THERE! _ " printed below. Gordon felt the mockery hang heavier than the cat from the branch.

" -- Waking up! Mr. Freeman!"

"... Finally. Now's no time for a nap, lazy."

"He's not napping, Dr. Bubby. Gordon must have just had an error."

"An error?"

"Yes! A  _ mind _ error!"

Gordon's body hurt, still somehow feeling the burn of the electricity. After all, it was, what, ten minutes since his most recent death, around three hours since the first? At this rate, he was going to end up dying hundreds of times before he ever figured out his next move. His stomach rolled uncomfortably at the thought of going through all of that over and over and over.

"Hello, Gordon!" Coomer said, kneeling in front of him.

Rolling onto his back and scanning his surroundings, Gordon came to two realizations: one, that this was not the same place he ended up after death as the first time, and two, he had no fucking clue where they were or what had happened last. How does one ask about that without sounding like they need medical attention? "Hey, I just died twice and I'm not sure any of you (or myself, for that matter) are real, mind doing me a solid and telling where the hell we are, buddy ol' pal?"

He didn't have any better ideas, so that was absolutely what he was going to do.

Gordon sat up, pointedly ignoring the burning sensation trailing up his spine. "What did we do last?"

Coomer inquired, "Ah, Gordon, you wouldn't happen to be concussed, would you?"

" _ No! _ Of course not. Just tell me."

Bubby stepped forward, and, in a surprising act of kindness, held his hand out to pull Gordon to his feet. "Killed a man, you were yelling about information, then you just blacked the fuck out! Only Tommy back there kept you from smacking your head into the floor."

"Oh," Gordon turned and put a hand on Tommy's arm, "Thanks for that, man. You're a real lifesaver,  _ literally _ ."

"You're welcome, Mr. Freeman! But, but, why'd you fall asleep so suddenly?"

Coomer piped in, "He could have low iron!"

Continuing that line of thought, Benrey added, "Yeah, what are you,  _ anemic _ or something?"

Gordon didn't have a proper way to answer that. Re: You don't usually have a situation like his, and therefore it wasn't worthwhile to try and explain. So he didn't! Gordon didn't owe them a response.

But, seeing as he still had his right hand attached to his body, it must be sometime before Benrey's betrayal, and, taking the grime covering his colleagues into consideration, they must have been out and about for a while.

What was his new plan of action? Gordon had died twice now and cleared up no answer to why he was in this situation.

Mentally, he began to organize a list of possible causes, as any proper scientist would.

One, this was caused by the resonance cascade. He wasn't sure why this would be it, but hasn't the cascade done things just as odd, if not more so?

Two, none of this was real and he was going to be stuck here forever, constantly dying. Truth be told, Gordon was not fond of option two!

Three, he was insane and all of this was a figment of his imagination. Three seemed like a bittersweet option, because, on one side, he was a nutjob, but on the other hand, he was a nutjob with an  _ imagination _ . Which, somehow, wasn't as bad. Loads of famous people just like that.

If he had the possible causes, the next step in a reasonable train of thought would be the solutions.

One, there's some obscure solve that will take ages to find, something like the Konami code but without buttons, because, y'know, he wasn't in a video game, forcing him to deviate from the script in various ways looking for the solution.

Two, he has to die a set amount of times, then everything will magically be okay again. Once again, he wasn't fond of option two! How was he supposed to know when his death count would max out? There wasn't any UI telling how many lives he had left like in Super Mario Bros for the NES! Or, at least, not one that he could see, but it would be ridiculous to imagine because he's not in a video game!

Three, there is no solution because this is all his imagination and he's actually, once again, a really creative nutjob. Gordon, creative? That would happen when hell froze over.

"Gordon, hotted boobs up ahead! Tits, big ones!"

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Gordon realized exactly where they were in their journey. Fuck, shit, ass, fuck. Thank god Coomer had some awfully memorable lines. Remembering his previous statement about the worst pain he had ever felt, he was reminded of the close second.

They were going to slowly sever off his hand, and he was going to be fully aware during every last little second of the experience.

Quick, Gordon, take a look at your options, decide which one you want to suffer through! You could kill yourself again,  _ coward _ , or, perhaps, now that you know what happens, you could venture down option one, and see what happens when you fight back!

Damn, the voice in his head was awfully convincing, wasn't it? Just kidding, he still wanted to charge directly into the crossfire of the current battle and hope he gets taken out swiftly. Would it hurt less, now that he knew what to expect?

"Go right in, Gordon, this is surface access!"

"Surface asses?"

"Yes, surface asses!"

Bubby and Benrey stood on either side of him, Benrey on the left, Bubby on the right, blocking his way out, funneling him towards the door. They both knew  _ exactly _ what they were doing, didn't they? His two options were either to proceed forwards and be trapped in a room with people who were going to give him up to the enemy, or beat the ever-loving shit out of one of these two and make a run for it.

"They have Blu-ray in there, Gordon! Go ahead!"

The real question, though, was, which of these two could he take out? Bubby proved to be a considerable opponent, even taking on the man, the myth, the legend, Dr. Coomer. On the other hand, though, Benrey just didn't seem to die at all. 

Wait a minute, Benrey doesn't die. Hell, none of the science team seemed to fall to the cold grasp of death when they definitely should be six feet under. Couldn't that be a clue? Did they also experience the time loop? But, they didn't remember their journey after his first death! Or, maybe they did remember, and something was keeping them quiet...

Benrey shoved Gordon forward roughly, knocking him from his thoughts. "Do you like DVDs, idiot? Or do you like Blu-ray, friend?"

In a spur of the moment decision that may or may not have been influenced by feeling Benrey's ability to shove him, Gordon decided that he was more likely to win in a fight against Bubby.

Bubby opened his mouth, about to say something about the medkit in the room, when Gordon swung his fist forward, using the armoured fingers of the HEV suit to crush Bubby's nose into his face.

Bubby's glasses clattered to the ground along with him, and he looked up at Gordon with disgust.

He had no eyes.

Gordon's head spun.

Where Bubby's eyes should reasonably be, there was only the colour of skin, stretching under the lenses of his glasses. How had Gordon never noticed this? He had never thought about the face that Bubby's eyes were always hidden. He just assumed they were some odd transition lenses or something. In an attempt to reassure himself, Gordon reached under his own glasses to feel for his eyes, which were, thankfully, still there, fully rendered.

As he patted his face down to check for missing pieces, the rest of the science team processed what had happened, and Benrey threw his arms around the back of Gordon's neck, nestling his throat in between his forearm and upper arm, and  _ squeezed _ with more strength than Gordon thought any normal man should have. 

Gordon could feel his feet leave the ground, and he opened his jaw, wheezing for air. In response to his flailing, Benrey dug his fingers into Gordon's scalp, forcing his head back and still. With an annoyingly bored tone, he said, "Hey, stop kicking me. It's not like I  _ wanna _ do this."

Gordon thrashed his head, freeing himself from the hand in his hair, and swung forward to sink his teeth into the blue fabric covering Benrey's forearm.

"Yo -- Don't give me your rabies!" With a thud, Gordon fell to the ground gasping for air, but only had a split second before two new hands were wrapped around his throat, walking him backward.

In the corner of his vision, he could see Tommy and Coomer, standing against the wall, looking... panicked? Concerned? For whom? Tommy cried and tried to run forward, but was held back by Coomer's hand, a gesture one could only assume was for Tommy's safety. Coomer mumbled something to Tommy, then looked directly into Gordon's eyes. He only saw disappointment. For some reason, Gordon felt his heart sink to his stomach.

His back hit the wall, still held in place by Bubby's grip. The elderly (elderly? wasn't he a test tube child? Perhaps the term "child" only referred to a mental state, not physical. It was entirely possible Bubby was only years old) man was so much fucking  _ stronger _ then he looked, the age spots littering his knuckles and the wrinkles of his face disguising someone that Gordon knew, to his very core, could kick his ass.

Why didn't he have eyes? Why wasn't anyone else freaking the fuck out over this?

Briefly, Gordon wondered if, in the off chance that the vomited directly into Bubby's torso, if he would let him go.

Bubby sneered, "You fucked up, Gordon! You should have just went in the room, then maybe I would have let you off easy!"

Oh, Gordon knew he had fucked up. If only he had run when he had the chance. His vision blurred at the edges, and he let out a quiet wheeze.

"You know, I was just beginning to like you. Maybe even would have considered you a friend! Too bad!" The knuckles around his throat squeezed, and Gordon's vision went out for a handful of seconds. He slumped back and watched with a tilted gaze as Bubby walked to the rest of the science team, standing in the farthest corner of the room.

Two soldiers entered the room. There was only so much room for Gordon to crawl backward before his suit clunked against the concrete wall.

The soldier on the left lifted him, hooking his arms underneath Gordon's, and the other soldier kicked his boot directly into the softer material of Gordon's stomach, wasting no time to follow up with a sharp swing to Gordon's temple with his right fist, a punch to the mouth with the left.

He was really going to have brain damage after all this, wasn't he? A small amount of blood sputtered out of his mouth after a particularly strong knock to the stomach.

The arms holding him upwards retracted, and Gordon toppled to the ground, smacking his head into the floor. From this angle, he could look directly at the science team. At least the lights were on this time 'round, so he could look directly at the people who did this to him.

Tommy crouched furthest into the corner, mouth covered with his hands, little sobbing noises slipping from between his fingers. Poor guy must be terrified. Coomer stood next to him, somehow looking more pained than Gordon had imagined him the first time around. He hadn't said anything about the play coins, oddly enough. To the left of them, Benrey leaned forward, seemingly soaking in all the brutality displayed, only slightly wrinkling his nose as the hits landed. Bubby, to the right, had his arms crossed, head turned away. C'mon, Bub, couldn't you do a potential friend a solid and help him out of this?

A sharp noise came from a blade behind Gordon, and he only had a moment to look at the cackling guards before a foot was pressed into the small of his back, pinning him to the ground, another knee crushing his head down. They pulled his left leg away from his body, angled awkwardly.

_ Why _ , Gordon asked himself, breathing hard against the floor and feeling said breath fog his glasses,  _ Why did this happen to me? Did I do something to deserve this? _

"... Help..."

This was a bit different than the first time 'round, wasn't it? Gordon wasn't sure if it was worse to lose a leg or an arm.

Tommy shrieked, and from the corner of his vision, Gordon could see him leap to his feet, straining against Coomer's grasp around his arms. "What're they doing to his leg! Mr. Coomer, they're gonna cut his leg, Mr. Coomer!"

"Now, Tommy, come here," Coomer said, tone simple and steady.  _ Good _ , Gordon thought,  _ Coomer will keep them safe _ .

The armour of his leg was unlatched, and the blade began to dig into his flesh. He could hear Benrey sound almost  _ shocked  _ infuriatingly enough. "Oh, oh that's not good. That's supposed to stay on." Through his beaten mind, Gordon managed a coherent  _ no shit, Sherlock _ .

The blade sawing, back, forth, back, forth, a shaky pendulum, through his leg felt like a concentration of the test chamber, made specifically to put him in agonizing pain. He struggled out a scream against the floor, the blade touching bone. Here was hoping they remembered to seal any major arteries they hit, or Gordon was going to be reset again.

Bubby, now looking at the scene unfolding in front of him, arms uncrossed, yelled, "I didn't tell you two to do  _ that _ !" Then why would you let them do this in the first place!

With a  _ crunch _ , the saw came down completely, and Gordon howled, struggling against their grip. He wanted to fight, wanted to sleep, wanted anything than what was happening right now.

Instead of any of those, Gordon took one look at his team being ushered out by Bubby before they could be captured, and blacked out.


	3. whether she loves me or loves me not, sometimes it's hard to tell

Sand tastes like shit when mixed with blood. Gordon knew this detail very intimately now.

Another feeling that Gordon knew very well: pain. Of all kinds. Currently, the pain he was feeling was a full-body ache paired with the white-hot burning centralized at his stump of a left leg. It was cut above the knee, scabbing over with congealed blood and dirt. Felt bad, looked worse.

The final feeling, one Gordon was very well acquainted with and one that he was feeling at the present moment, was pure, unadulterated rage.  _ Why _ , he kept asking himself. It wasn't out of pity, no, he was past that point, but rather, it was out of frustration. He wanted answers, anything to help him get a grip on the situation.

He sat up in the dirt, feeling his body ache in protest. Slowly, careful not to disturb his wound, Gordon unlatched the upper part of the HEV suit to gain access to the dorky button-up he was wearing underneath it. He ripped a large segment of the garment, only slightly pitying the loss of one of his favourite shirts. It had little atoms on it! He thought it was relevant!

Gordon wrapped his stump haphazardly -- He wasn't quite sure what to do in this situation. Aren't you supposed to elevate the wound? A tourniquet!

He didn't know how to make a tourniquet. His MIT education evaded him at the worst times.

Seething, Gordon crawled in the direction he already knew to go to. Which took forever, crawling around like a toddler. Up the sand, into the building, through the vents.

" _ Mr. Freeman! _ "

Gordon tumbled out of the vents, falling on his stomach in front of Tommy.

Straightening his glasses, Gordon looked up. "Hey, Tommy. Mind giving me a hand?

Tommy stumbled over and propped Gordon upwards. Green illuminated their faces in the shade of the factory, contrasting with the blood covering both of their persons. Chewing his bottom lip, Tommy opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. He had something on his mind but wasn't saying it.

Gordon placed his hand heavy on Tommy's shoulder as they both leaned against the wall. He could only hope it was a grounding presence. "They tricked you with a Beyblade, yeah?"

Eyes widening, Tommy looked up. "Yeah, uh," He said, brow furrowing and frown deepening, "Mr. Coomer asked me to stay here. He said he'd be back. I'm -- I'm  _ sorry _ , Mr. Freeman."

It was a difficult task to be mad at Tommy, and Gordon was far too tired for it. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, for Pete's sake. This whole mess wasn't his fault ( _ and who's fault was it, Dr. Freeman _ , someone in his mind asked him).

He shook Tommy's shoulder with the best fatherly grip he could manage while delirious from blood loss, and grinned, "It's alright, Tommy. We'll fix this, won't we?"

Tommy looked at everything in the room besides Gordon, popping the joints in his hands over and over again. He felt guilty, and it was written all over his face. Why? Tommy had done nothing wrong. Gordon wanted him to understand that, that he was doing great and he was trustworthy and all of these other positive adjectives, but couldn't understand how to put it in a way that made sense, that wasn't overwhelming.

So, for once in Gordon's life (lives?), he didn't say anything. He instead opted to pull Tommy forward by the shoulders and give him the best hug he could with his femur visible.

Hands pausing, then wringing them again, then pausing, Tommy hesitated. Gordon squeezed a little harder, patting his back. Tommy paused once more, then threw his arms around Gordon's neck and tucked his face against his hair, not unlike the way someone might hug a dog. Guess old habits die hard?

"I'm  _ sorry _ , Mr. Freeman, I didn't want this to happen! I couldn't -- I should've -- I don't know! I didn't think Mr. Coomer or Mr. Bubby would -- there must've been something that I could've done!"

Gordon continued to pat his back, making sure to keep an even tempo, just like he used to comfort Joshua after nightmares. "It's alright, Tommy. Sometimes things happen. You can't help everyone," fucking  _ christ _ , Tommy had one hell of a grip, and he repeated his original statement, "We'll fix this!"

Tommy stopped, then leaned back on his heels, thinking awfully hard about something. Then, with his face perking up, Tommy stood suddenly, tugging Gordon along with him, and slung his arm over his shoulders, standing vigilantly. "Yeah! Mr. Freeman, we  _ can _ ! But not here!"

"... Do I really wanna ask why we can't here?"

"It's too gross here!"

No kidding. What was with Black Mesa and the production of green sludge? What just makes green sludge? Gordon had never had any real-life experience with green sludge, only had seen it in cartoons. Did Black Mesa mass-produce Nickelodeon slime? That raised some nefarious questions.

They stepped through the doorway, arm in arm, and Gordon took a firm breath in. It was easier to walk with someone there to support you, steps alternating right from left. 

Breathing out, Gordon looked up to Tommy. "Hey, look at me for a moment," He said, then continued, "I'm going to say something really that's going to sound really weird, but I want you to listen. Alright?"

Tommy nodded, smile warm, and Gordon continued.

"I've died twice, and every time, I've come back. I'm not sure if this is real."

Pause. Tommy didn't reply. Was he pondering how to reply to this crazy person?

Abruptly, all emotion left his friend's face. He stared, eyes unfocused, looking just past Gordon's head. The entire scene was so silent and still that he swore if he reached up, he wouldn't feel Tommy's pulse in his wrist. Then, the arm around his shoulders retracted, and Gordon fell to the floor, HEV suit clattering against the tile.

" _ Mr. Freeman, _ " Tommy gasped,

" _ What happened to your leg? _ "

That settled that. Gordon was trapped in some hell, unable to speak of his experiences, trapped to forever die over and over again in a twisted cycle. He slammed his head against the floor. Would this headache ever fade?

Tommy lifted him once more, tugging him to a standing position. An impressive feat, considering Gordon was doing everything to make himself as limp as possible.

"Mr. Freeman, we gotta get you something to stand with! I know where we can do that!" Tommy resumed walking as if nothing had happened and he hadn't just dropped Gordon like a sack of potatoes.

Gordon followed with a downward-turned stare.

\----

"Am I heavy? I'm trying to make this easy, but..."

"It's okay, Mr. Freeman! You're heavy, but I'm strong enough!"

"Huh."

"Yeah!"

"Tommy, have I ever made it clear that you're the most reliable member of the team?"

"Yeah!"

"Good, good. Just wanted to make sure."

Tommy and Gordon walked, side by side, through the Black Mesa hallways, with the occasional careful placing down of Gordon in a corner deemed safe to free up Tommy's hands for ass-kicking and name-taking. 

Somehow, despite most of his blood being dedicated to scabbing up his mangled leg, Gordon had enough left over to make his face red with a mixture of embarrassment and rage. Embarrassment, because he couldn't do much of anything by himself, and rage, because he still had an ever-growing pile of unanswered questions, now paired with the realization that he had no one to inquire about them. Still wasn't Tommy's fault, though. Gordon just needed to pry a little harder for the answers he wanted so desperately.

Without a doubt, though, it was far more peaceful than the rest of his time in Black Mesa. Their conversations were calm and contained, mostly carried by Tommy talking about whatever franchise had captured his focus. Gordon listened carefully, dedicating certain details and episode numbers to memory. He'd have to get Tommy a nice gift after all this was over, an apology for having to help him walk for so long and getting his blood all over him.

The two came to a sudden halt, and Gordon stirred from his thoughts, looking up at Tommy, and then down at whatever Tommy was staring at.

"Water."

"I think it's sewage?"

"Uh," Gordon vaguely waved his hand, "... 'S liquid."

Tommy leaned forward over the edge and looked down into the brown. "Um, I don't really know how we're gonna get past this stuff."

Yeah, no kidding. Gordon knew that there were ways to swim with one leg (discovered after a four-hour-long YouTube deep dive marathon, beginning with some quantum physics videos he was intrigued by, then ending on different swimming techniques to escape various large predators), but wasn't familiar with them. He never exactly expected to be in this situation, even without the reality-bending additions. No one expects aliens, do they?

He could probably still float in the water if he tried hard enough, but it would be an all-around tiring experience, one that he would only be able to keep up for a short amount of time. Not to mention the panic rising to his chest at the thought of getting an open wound all up in that gross ass water. He may be questionably immortal now, but he was still fearful of bodily harm. 

Typhoid fever didn't seem like a fun way to die.

But, it wasn't as if he had anything to lose! Unwrapping his arm from Tommy, Gordon plopped down to the side of the water, kicking his singular foot slowly, then slid in, still holding on to the side. His fellow scientist hesitated for a moment before leaning down and splashing into the water alongside him. Tommy rose back to the surface in a moment, droplets dripping down his face, and grabbed Gordon's arm with a newfound assurance.

An arm snaked around his own, and Gordon glanced at Tommy.

"Just don't move around too quick, okay?" Tommy said, then breathed in dramatically through his mouth, eyes squeezed shut and cheeks pushed out. Gordon mimicked his action, and under they went. 

It was damn near impossible to see under the grey-brown layer thickly coating the water (liquid, Gordon reminded himself) that they swam through. Did Tommy even know where he was going? He sure looked like he did, so Gordon supposed he could trust him. 

The real question would be,  _ how _ does he know where he's going? Was it just good intuition? Oh, god, had Black Mesa made him go down here before? A feeling of rage welled up in Gordon before he squashed it back down. When he was angry, he tended to move around, shake and wave his hands. Now, as he was being hauled along by his fellow scientist, it was not the time for that.

Gordon still wiggled a little bit. It was unavoidable! He was running out of breath and wasn't sure how much longer they were going to be under! He was wiggling out of  _ anxiety _ , an acceptable reason to wiggle. Just a little bit.

Tommy snapped his head around and shot and chilling glare at him. Gordon stopped moving immediately. Whoops. Way to go, Freeman.

The water ( _ liquid _ , it's  _ liquid _ , he reminded himself) began to go bright around them, light streaming down through the dirt and junk. Gordon could just slightly see the ends of Tommy's lab coat flutter through the water.

Head breaking the surface, Tommy treaded while he helped Gordon hoist his upper body onto the ledge. Gordon locked his knuckles around the grate of the floor and limply pressed his cheek to the cold floor. Beside him, Tommy dragged himself out, sprawling his limbs out and laying on his back.

Gordon struggled forward, looking not unlike a slug, listening to Tommy laugh quietly and his efforts. His friend's hand pulled his own from the metal grate and helped him sit on the edge.

Tommy was still laughing a little, gentle and quiet.

Gordon raised a brow and turned to him, asking, "And what's so funny?"

"I'm just a little tired, Mr. Freeman."

"Yeah, buddy, I know," he replied. Gordon removed his dripping glasses, holding the lenses in his hands. Rubbing his eyes clear of any muck, he took care to check each of his facial features, making sure they were still there. Thankfully, all were accounted for. Knock on wood.

"... Mr. Freeman?"

"Yeah, Tommy?"

"After all this is over, would you let me meet Joshua?"

After all this is over... After it all was over, Tommy would still be around. For some reason, that made Gordon smile, very slightly.  _ What if it's never over _ , asked someone in his mind. He shoved the thought back. No thinking like that while Tommy was around.

Quietly, the sound of Tommy popping his knuckles filled the chamber. "I -- I don't wanna intrude -- I just, uh, like kids, and thought,"

Whoops, Gordon realized. He was thinking for way longer than normal. Patting Tommy's shoulder, Gordon replied, "Yeah, of course! I mean, Josh always has too much energy for me, do you think you could keep up?"

"Of course, Mr. Freeman! Especially if I brought Sunkist!"

Hoo, boy. That big of a dog, in Gordon's little apartment? Practically a recipe for chaos. But, Tommy looked so  _ happy _ with merely the idea of it.

"Alright!" Gordon slapped the ground, the hollow sound echoing, and shakily grabbed the wall, heaving himself upwards. "Let's go fix the problem."

And they  _ were _ going to fix the problem, they were, but sometimes, things don't work out like you expect them to.

Arm in arm, the two walked, dripping with weird brown liquid and also lots of blood.

And there was someone else.

Someone else had been waiting for them.

No, no, it's not you, and it's not him, and it's not me, it's  _ him _ .

"Bubby?"

Yes, none other than Bubby was sitting in the next corridor, resting his chin on his palms, looking to be the purest definition of  _ bored _ .

He turned to them, stretching his legs and standing. "Ugh, took you long enough! This technically is Coomer's thing, not mine, y'know!"

He looked them up, up, down, down, left right left right B A -- He looked at them.

"Hello, Gordon. You two look like shit."

There was that wrath in Gordon's chest, back again and with a vengeance. He leaned forward as far as he could and jabbed his index finger at the man. " _ Yeah _ , no thanks to  _ you _ . You, you fucking let them do this  _ again,  _ and you can't even bring yourself to care, can you --" 

Tommy struggled to readjust to Gordon's gesturing.

"Excuse me," Bubby replied, feigning shock, "You attacked me first! Riddle me this, Gordon, what does it mean when you attack me first?"

Huh?

"Uh," Tommy tried, "Does it mean he's mean?"

"Not quite, Tommy! You're close, though," Bubby said, "It means he's  _ hostile _ . And, unfortunately, that means I ought to be hostile right back!"

Gordon scoffed. "What? Is that a threat?"

"Now that you've given me a reason... Yes! Yes, it is!"

A bullet tore through Gordon's remaining knee, and he tumbled to the floor, despite Tommy's efforts to keep him up. Why was it always,  _ perpetually, him _ getting fucked up?

The shot was direct, but the model of the gun couldn't have been too powerful, as the bullet stopped snugly in the muscle lining the indent of his leg. This was meant to incapacitate, not to kill. Bubby had made it clear he wanted Gordon dead, so he must have something to say. Somehow, that made Gordon even more pissed than he already was. He was going to give himself a brain aneurysm from pissing himself off, and that was going to be how he died this run.

He leaned down to Gordon's slouched level, knees cracking (once an old man, always an old man, Dr. Bubby), and poked Gordon with the gun.

Looking at himself in the reflection of Bubby's glasses, battered and beaten, tired and trembling, Gordon felt angry. He always felt angry, yes, but this was different. It felt like an elephant standing on his chest, made him feel not small, but rather dwarfed by the emotion. He wasn't used to waxing so poetic, so there must have been something wrong. Maybe he was just  _ that _ hostile.

He grabbed Bubby's pistol and threw it into the murky water with a splash, struggling to pull Bubby over. It didn't work, of course, considering the fact that he was rapidly losing blood, hadn't slept in a hot minute, and was trying to fight a man much older and wiser than himself, but what did Gordon have to lose?

_ Tommy _ , his mind told him,  _ Tommy! _

Gordon shoved Bubby to the ground, and rolled over, searching the room for a tall white lab coat. There was none. What? Where was he?

Then, Bubby was pushing him down again, face against the metal grate. "Look, Gordon, I can see you're really angry about this --" Gordon took a swing at Bubby's face, "-- I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly --" another swing, "-- And let me kill you."

"Why! Why should I?" Oh boy, his head was spinning. Did the bullet hit an artery? Why wasn't his suit injecting any morphine?

Bubby's brows creased as he hoisted Gordon's flailing body to the edge of the metal platform. "You'll come back! Just let me get rid of you for now, you dumbass!"

Gordon stopped.

"You  _ know _ ?"

"Of  _ course _ I know! What  _ don't  _ I know! I, mean, yes, Coomer told me, but! But I won't know for long, that's the kicker!"

"Wuh -- Why?"

Bubby shook him by the collar. "We'll forget! We always do when it's reset! But, but, we get  _ better _ . At different speeds, yes, but we're still getting  _ better _ . Or, at least, that's what Coomer says, and I'd believe anything that man says!"

Gordon had a headache. His anger dissolved. He breathed through clenched teeth, and said, "Bubby, I remember."

"That sounds like a 'you' problem --" Gordon tried to shove Bubby away. "Listen! I may know most things, but I don't know how this works. You're on your own, Gordon!"

Gordon was lifted by the collar, a gun (he had  _ another _ ?) was pressed against his stomach, a was trigger pulled, and into the water ( _ liquid _ ) he was thrown.

The fluorescent lights shone down like an angel lifting him to the heavens. He wasn't going to heaven. He was going back to hell. 

The light ahead of him, blood surrounding him, Gordon let the gears in his head turn.

He made a list. Lists were order. Order kept him calm, kept him together. His list read:

1) Bubby might not have eyes.

1a) No one else seemed bothered by this.

2) Gordon can change the events of the timeline, but not the course.

2a) Sometimes it's not a good idea to try and change the timeline, IE, his leg.

3) Tommy will help.

3a) Tommy will help, but he can't respond, or maybe he isn't able to  _ process _ Gordon's existential crisis.

4) Coomer, somehow, knows.

4a) Coomer forgets.

5) Bubby will listen to Coomer.

5a) Bubby forgets.

6) They are 'getting better'.

6a) They are 'getting better' at different speeds.

7) Gordon had to die.

7a) Gordon didn't want to die anymore.

He breathed in, disgusting brown water filling his mouth and lungs, his esophagus closing in response.

Gordon was going to die.

Gordon was all alone, and he was going to die.

Gordon was cold, and he was going to die.

Gordon could feel his mind going, and he was going to die.

If he could feel these things, did it make him real?

Red, green, blue, black, then grey.

" _ Stop fighting me! _ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's two references to 2001: a space odyssey in here. if you find them i will have nothing to offer you other than my commendation BUT. it is something


	4. yet i am longing to share the lot of beautiful daisy bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit more silly than the usual chapter. i thought the gang deserved a break :^]

" _Stop fighting me!_ "

A new comment. New feedback on a new patch. More words.

Did these little comments actually mean something, Gordon wondered, or were they just residual errors from his mess of a brain? God knows. Which reminded him, he needed to give a big ol' _FUCK YOU_ to God when he finally got the chance to see him.

Who was Gordon kidding? No god would let something like this happen. Or would they?

He was beginning to get used to this process, having done it three times now. The grey void would surround him for a long, _excruciatingly_ boring time, then the world would begin to appear in bits and pieces, like a Christmas calendar, but instead of revealing treats, it would reveal where the hell he was this time.

He wasn't sure if he'd be happy with the answer this time around, considering his newly replaced surroundings that were monotonously gaining detail. Soldiers, on all sides of him. They weren't moving yet, of course, but he could already smell the scent of gunpowder in the air and the panic rising in his lungs.

He took a look down at his body. It typically took only a short amount of time for his body to appear, often being one of the first things to pop into his vision, but it was taking a bit longer currently.

_Well_ , Gordon thought, _That explains it_.

He was missing his right arm. Which wasn't odd, but just how _far up_ it was cut was a change. The jagged split was parallel to his shoulder, tendons hanging loose and muscle contracting. When everything was done loading, his new stump probably wasn't going to feel great. Thank goodness for his newfound pain tolerance! 

The room around him was bloody, suggesting the battle had been in progress when he stopped -- an unlucky draw for Gordon, considering that he was going to be in the crossfire.

The last details rendered in his vision, then said vision went black and Gordon tumbled to the ground in a pile, same as his first blackout. Only this time, he was in immediate danger and had only seconds to will himself to consciousness before being filled with lead.

_C'mon, Freeman_ , he told himself, _Don't you wanna live?_

His eyes opened abruptly and his remaining limbs kicked and twisted, looking for traction. The suit creaked over the gunfire as he lifted himself to his feet, and _god_ did that wound hurt just as much as he expected, if not more so.

Gordon did a double-take of his surroundings. Benrey was nowhere to be found, suggesting this time wasn't too long after his betrayal. Bubby and Tommy had four soldiers down in their corner, and Coomer alone had seven down. Never failing to impress, Coomer. Back to the task at hand, more soldiers funneled into the room, maybe another seven or so at his two o'clock.

Gordon failed to account for the fact that he had a blind spot. Pistol-whipped in the back of the head, Gordon fell back to the ground, feeling the blood trickle down his neck. Was he going to set a record for his shortest life?

The soldiers behind him made a breathless ' _ghuff!_ ' noise, and Gordon peered carefully over his shoulder to see Coomer _football tackle_ the man before turning his face to mashed potatoes with his bare fists. He didn't know how to feel about that.

The gunfire halted, and he rose to a kneeling position, wiping the blood from his face and glasses. He felt for his eyes. Force of habit.

"Do you need a hand, Gordon?" He looked up at Bubby, face blurred and unrecognizable without his glasses. Bubby's hand reached out for him. Those same hands had killed him not more than half an hour ago.

Gordon waved his hand away and put his head wound down against the cool floor, alleviating the pain with the pressure. He sighed, and said, "No. I'm taking a nap."

"Now, sleepyhead," Coomer called, "I'll have you know, this is far too dangerous a situation for that kind of behaviour!"

Yeah. Yeah, it was. Gordon rose to his feet, now fully feeling the pain of his missing arm without the adrenaline. Constantly going back and forth between having an arm, not having an arm, not having a leg, having a leg, was getting a little confusing. Somewhat like phantom pain but if a randomizer was attached to his brain.

The real issue was, though, that he must have done something different in order to lose more of his arm, and he _didn't know_ what he did. 

Well. Fake it 'till you make it, Gordon!

He stood and clambered to his feet, left hand pressing just above his stump of an arm. The pressure didn't do much, but it kept his hand busy, and _god_ , did he want to fidget. It wasn't out of his typical anger this time -- no, Gordon had been ushered to a new domain of emotion. Anxiety. Actually, it was rather inaccurate to refer to his newfound neuroticism as 'new' -- he'd been harbouring said anxiety for a _long_ time now -- this felt more like static, cotton in his diaphragm built from existential despair. 

"Gordon," Coomer said, prompting a nervous double take from Gordon. Please don't say anything about ropes. "You look quite done-in!"

Guess Gordon's face betrayed him.

"Well, I am losing, like, a lot of blood. I really have to stress the fact that blood has been and is still leaving my body. But, thanks for noticing?" 

Bubby butted in, "You should just get used to having less blood and don't be a greedy bastard!"

"Now, Bubby, you know better than to judge a man by how much blood he needs. Which brings me to ask, Gordon," Coomer raised a brow, "Shall we stop to rest soon?"

It was a bit uncharacteristic for one of the team to suggest resting, just enough so that it put Gordon on edge. They were planning something, weren't they? Had he done something to piss off the team this timeline?

Carefully, slowly, Gordon replied, "... It's not completely dark out, we could keep going for a good few hours yet. Why? Why do you want to stop?"

"Mr. Freeman, I'm _tired_ ," Tommy called.

Ah. Tommy wouldn't lie to him. Though Gordon's caution ruled supreme in his mind, he still cared for what Tommy wanted, and if Tommy wanted to rest, then they would rest.

He sighed, feigning annoyance, and said, "Alright. We'll stop for the night. Just -- just, let's find a room with less, uh, dangerous lasers in it. I feel like they're giving Bubby ideas to finish me off."

Down the turn of the hallway and to the right was a storage room with just the space they needed to spread out their limbs, but not so big that it made Gordon uneasy about hidden dangers. That statement was a bit incorrect -- Gordon was still very much uneasy, but it felt a little more illogical to be nervous when you were surrounded by four stable walls.

Boxes and shelves littered the wall space but were swiftly shoved to the side by the science team (or, rather, Coomer. He seemed to get a kick out of lifting metal shelves twice his size). A few of the boxes lingered, full of items that they deemed useful enough to keep close at hand -- flashlights, batteries, a radio, and some odd green vials that Bubby had requested to take. Gordon couldn't guess what could be in those vials, and he didn't want to know.

Tommy plugged the radio into the outlet near the door, saying, "I read that white noise helps people sleep, and radios make plenty of noise!"

"The only noise those things will make is military jargon, but feel free to try, I guess," Gordon replied, slumped on top of a crate, knees drawn to his chest, hand squeezing the shoulder of his missing arm repetitively.

Bubby lightly nudged Tommy out of the way, mumbling that he knew a thing or two about radios. "I took a few courses on radiology, y' know," he said.

Gordon paused. "I don't think -- _isn't radiology a medical field?_ "

"... Who gives a shit? I know what I'm doing."

Fair.

And sure enough, after fiddling with the frequency and letting Coomer smack the top of the radio, Bubby managed to get it playing from a New Mexico oldies station.

A gruff radio host played over the speakers. " _It's currently 8 o'clock, and you're listening to Radio Turing, where the music gets real with our classic hits_." 

Hearing a normal voice was an odd experience after all that had happened so far. A reminder that, despite their struggles, despite Gordon's new doubt of reality, there was still something outside Black Mesa. Or... or was there? There had to be. But Coomer had said... Gordon's curled in upon himself, rocking back and forth slightly. His shoulder hurt so _fucking_ bad.

Adverts played, a car salesman shouting about their _'amazing new deals -- deals -- deals!!'_ , a soft, simple piano in the background of a medical facility's jingle, a high-pitched hum -- _huh_?

Next to Gordon's spot on the crate was the skeleton, humming a tune, colour spreading in front of them. In any other situation, Gordon would have absolutely flipped his shit, started swinging, maybe even shot a few rounds, but it didn't seem to be doing anything, besides the singing.

And, if Gordon were to be honest, the song it was singing was... pretty. The colour of the orbs was a chartreuse and orchid pink, spreading throughout the air without much thought, illuminating the walls with their colour.

He reached a hand up, careful not to touch the skeleton, and poked one of the green orbs. The surface fluctuated, then with a high note, it _popped_ , making Gordon nearly leap out of his boots.

" _Ah-hah-hah..._ " The skeleton was laughing at him. So much for his pride.

"Yeah, laugh it up, laugh it up. How was I supposed to know?"

The skeleton reached up, and with a gentle boney hand, picked up one of the pink orbs.

With an unmoving jaw, the skeleton turned to Gordon and said, "You're just not doing it right. Gimme your hand."

Despite every molecule of his questionable existence telling him not to, that it was a trap, Gordon obediently raised his hand in a cup. 

The skeleton tilted his hand, and the orb rolled into Gordon's palm, bouncing for a moment before settling down. It glowed slightly, but looking down, he could see his reflection in the surface -- hair mussed and falling out of the tie, glasses crooked, blood smeared on his forehead. _A mess_ , honestly.

On the opposite side of his reflection, though, he saw a grinning security guard, staring directly at him. The pink orb popped in Gordon's face.

" _Benrey!_ I knew it!"

Benrey's grin only got wider. "What'd'ya mean."

"You're the skeleton," Gordon said, gesturing with his hand, "The one who was just sitting there!"

"Huh?"

Gordon threw his hand above his head and grumbled. He paused, then said, "You're not supposed to be here yet."

"Yeaaaah, and you're supposed to be telling me to die. Guess we're both disobeying. Shame on you," Benrey shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back against the wall, shoulder just an inch from Gordon's own.

"You know about that?"

Surprisingly, Benrey answered his question. "Mhm. Don't know why, though."

Fair enough. They were practically on the same page.

The adverts over the radio ended, and the announcer faded back in.

" _Welcome back to Radio Turing, folks, where the music gets real with our classic hits,_ " the voice paused for the sound of a paper being flipped, " _Just a reminder, Friday is request night. Any classic you want, call in and we'll add it to the queue. We just got a request from a Jon McCarthy for the oldie Daisy Bell. A real blast from the past here, huh, folks? But sure enough, we'll play it. True to our word, you hear me?_ "

The voice faded out, replaced by the notes of a piano.

From the corner of the room, Bubby shot up, startling Tommy, who was dozing next to him.

" _Dr. Coomer, our song!_ " He called, hand outstretched.

"Yes, yes, I am aware, dear Bubby," Coomer replied, rising to his feet, straightening his coat, then bowing forward, taking Bubby's hand.

" _There is a flower within my heart,_ " The radio sang. 

The two doctors, arm in arm, hand in hand, began to _dance_. Gordon wasn't familiar with the types of ballroom dance, but if he had to guess, it looked somewhat like a waltz? Wow.

" _Planted one day by a glancing dart, planted by Daisy Bell!_ "

Tommy clasped his hands together, and said with awe glittering in his eyes, "You two are so good at this! It's just like a movie scene in a theater!"

" _Whether she loves me or loves me not, sometimes it's hard to tell,_ "

Coomer, with a jolly laugh, replied, "Of course we are! We've had many years to practice, after all."

" _Yet I am longing to share the lot, of beautiful Daisy Bell!_ "

The music picked up, and in turn, Coomer and Bubby stepped faster. Left feet step in unison, followed by the right, and they moved like it was a _competition_ , seeing who would fuck up first.

" _Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do,_ "

More of the pink and green orbs hover into the air, and with a turn of his head and a surprised smile, Gordon realized that Benrey was singing along.

" _I'm half crazy, all for the love of you!_ "

"Can you keep up, old man?" Bubby jabbed, tilting his doctor down in a dip. Tommy, in the corner, was clapping along with the beat of the song, voice carrying over to the other side of the room.

" _It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage,_ "

Coomer laughed, then with a huff, lifted Bubby in the air and spun. "I could ask you the same thing!"

" _But you'll look sweet, upon the seat,_ "

Gordon's resolve failed, and he found himself joining into the song, singing,

" _A bicycle built for two._ "

Tommy clapped harder as the two doctors parted and bowed to one another, hands behind their backs. Instead of returning to their respective seats, though, Bubby sat across from Tommy and gestured for Coomer to join him, arms outstretched and a, quite frankly, menacing grin on his face. Coomer appeared bashful for a moment, but he showed no disdain towards sinking down to sit next to, to quote Coomer himself, his ' _dear Bubby_ '.

The whole scene, the two scientists leaned up against one another, Tommy excitedly inquiring where they learned to dance, the room illuminated by green and pink sweet voice, was so sickeningly sweet, so -- so _domestic_ in nature, that for a moment, Gordon lost himself in the warm emotion, letting the anxiety and dread leaving him in waves, and forgot his overall top goal -- not dying. He let himself relax, shoulders and eyes dropping, staring fondly at the people he'd come to -- he wasn't sure.

"Hey, Feetman," a voice came from his left, "were you singing?"

Fuck this guy. Gordon clenched his teeth, not bothering to glance at Benrey, and replied, "Maybe I was. _So were you_. What's your problem?"

"Hey, hey, I never said I had an issue with it."

"Sure. And now you're gonna call me lame? 'Cringey', perhaps? I know your weird-ass internet lingo."

"Whuh -- No. Maybe later, but not now. I was gonna, uh, ask..." Benrey paused. He paused for longer.

" _What?_ "

Benrey turned away. "Nothin'."

And that was it. When Benrey decided he didn't want to say something, Gordon knew better than anyone that trying to force him to do so was a fruitless endeavor. 

"Mr. Coomer, how'd you two meet, anyway?" Tommy asked, resting his chin on his hands and leaning forwards. Damn, he was really into the whole story-telling thing, wasn't he?

"Well, Tommy, I met this crusty curmudgeon," Coomer shook the arm around Bubby's shoulders, jostling the man slightly, "Around two decades ago. Quite a time ago!"

Bubby crossed his arms. "Yeah, _we're old_. Stop rubbing salt in the wound and get on with it, Coomer."

"Yes, yes. I was a new Black Mesa hire, and Bubby here had been working in the facility his whole life. Having had only recently dropped my boxing career, I was, admittedly, a bit... rowdy." ("Are you not _still_ rowdy?" Bubby inquired), "Not yet suited for the fine-tuned motor skills of science, not after years of beating the daylights out of people."

Bubby uncrossed his arms and pointed at himself. "And that's where _my_ genius came in!"

"Yes! My first assignment was with none other than my dear Bubby. It was mostly him doing the work, you see, and telling me where to move things, what to cut, what to write, so-on-so-forth. I believe the experiment was something to do with cows? Vivisection, if I remember correctly. Either way, I misheard one of his commands, something about bleach --"

"Probably couldn't hear me with that hellish cauliflower ear you had at the time," Bubby added.

"-- Either way, I took the bleach and poured it into the open stomach. You all know what happens when you mix bleach with an acid, correct?"

Tommy processed the question, then asked, "I think I read... I think it makes chlorine gas?"

Coomer clapped his hands together, again jolting the man he was holding. " _Yes_! _Chlorine gas!_ Filled the whole room, and my dear Bubby was calling me stupid the whole time! Only two fatalities, though, and can you guess what this lovely man said to me afterward?"

Sitting up, Bubby pushed up his glasses, and, as if he knew it from memory, said, "I told him, _'It was rad as hell, though.'_ "

"Exactly! And we've stuck together ever since." Coomer practically strangled a hug out of Bubby.

Wasn't that sweet? The two settled down, and the room calmed. From the singular small window in the room, Gordon could tell it was fully night now, the only remaining light being the stars and the flashlight propped up in the center of the room. All of the sweet voice had dissipated.

Which reminded him...

"Tommy, what does green and pink mean in the sweet voice?"

Benrey straightened behind him. "It doesn't mean anything," he insisted.

And yet, Tommy put his hand to his chin. "Like, in conversation? It depends, I think. On the context, especially. But for right this moment... was it 'green to pink', or 'pink to green'?"

"Uh," Gordon thought for a second, "I can't remember. It was kind of a jumble, back and forth, y' know?"

"I think it doesn't matter and you ask stupid questions."

"It's not stupid."

"It's a cringe question."

Gordon crossed his arms. "Oh, so I'm only cringe when it inconveniences you?"

"... Yes -- No. No, you're 24/7 cringe."

" _Oh!_ I remember," Tommy exclaimed, "Green to pink means _I understand what you think_ , while pink to green --"

Benrey hopped up and shoved a hand over Tommy's mouth. "Tommy. Tommy, stop answering this cringe man's cringe questions."

"He's -- Mr. Freeman isn't cringe, Benrey, he's my friend, and your --" Benrey spit more blue sweet voice into the air around Tommy. Was he throwing a fit? It looked like a fit.

Tommy shoved Benrey out of his face and scrambled behind Coomer. Ooh, cheater. Benrey knew he couldn't get past Coomer.

Coomer spread his arms out, forming a little shield around Tommy. "I protect the boy! Tommy, speak your mind!" Coomer declared. Grunting at the movement, Bubby returned to dozing off.

"Mr. Freeman," Tommy blocked Benrey's hands, "pink to green means ' _let's convene!_ '"

Dropping his attacks, Benrey let out a groan.

Gordon let the information settle in his mind. 'Convene'? They were already in the same room, though... Oh! He meant it like _that_. Then, with an absolutely shit-eating grin, he asked, "Benrey, was that an _apology_? Were you _apologizing_?"

"Yeah, Mr. Freeman, he was!" 

Crumpled to the ground, Benrey let out another grumble. "I thought you were on my side, Tommy... Why'd you have to do me like this, man."

Gordon chuckled. "Aw, c'mon, if you've got something to tell me, use your words."

"... That's lame. Words are even more cringe than you, dude..." Hm?

Coomer lowered his arms, effectively releasing Tommy from the corner, and said, "Gordon, I believe he's trying to say that he has difficulty with his words!"

Benrey groaned yet again, like some sort of beast being gravely wounded. They were going _hard_ on the introspection tonight, weren't they? "Is this just 'roast your nice guard friend' night? Is that what this is? Not very epic of you guys."

Hm. These realizations put quite a few of Benrey's actions into perspective. He had trouble with his words, acted out when he couldn't describe his feelings, and understood the impact of his actions. It somehow made him seem far more emotionally mature than the idea of Benrey that Gordon had built in his mind.

"I'd wait for you to find your words," Gordon said.

"What was that, bro?"

Gordon shrugged. "I can be patient, sometimes. Speak your mind, I'll wait."

Stopping where he stood, Benrey stared. His mouth slightly opened, closed, then he grinned his usual grin -- big, toothy, intimidating. 

He strutted back over to his previous spot next to Gordon on the crate, and plopped down to him, limbs spread, taking up as much room as possible. Gordon drew his knees closer to his chest plate in a futile attempt to avoid contact.

"Wow. Saying you'd wait for me. That's pretty... Uh. Big confession. Should I be hearing wedding bells?" Benrey leaned his head back on the concrete, grinning over at Gordon.

Gordon sighed. "I -- I _never_ ," His voice sounded almost scandalized, " _That would be a wedding from hell._ "

Clasping his hands together and leaning over to press his helmet to the downwards-tilted top of Gordon's hair, Benrey gasped and exclaimed, "Oh! We're having the reception in my hometown! You're so _thoughtful_ , love."

Gordon's face burned. "What _is_ your problem...?"

"Hey, baby, you told me to use my words."

Gordon's headache returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am 100% reading every comment that is left on this work and i am 100% that just. crying cat meme at all of them


	5. daisy, daisy, give me your answer, do

It had something to do with the rain, pittering down onto the rooftop, that made Joshua wake up earlier than usual.

He would jump out of bed -- sometimes as early as 5 o'clock, run down the hall, past the living room just long enough to press grabby little hands to the glass, then run back to the hall, down to Gordon's room.

The door would _creaaaak_ open, Joshua's little round face peeking through the crack, then _slam_ against the wall, tiny feet pattering against hardwood as he'd climb on to Gordon's bed, bouncing on top of his father, curled up in the fetal position under the quilt.

"Dad! Dad! Dad! _Dad_ ," he'd call, patting his father's face. Truth be told, Gordon had been awake since the second he had heard Joshua's door open, but, despite his plan never working, hoped that he would get bored and leave. Lesson learned: little kids don't give up on the rain.

" _Joshie_ ," Gordon would grumble, batting little hands away from his messy hair, "Gimme a moment."

Gordon would lift Joshua off of his chest, place him on top of the pillow, and reach for his glasses with blurry eyes. After having his eyesight restored, Gordon could see the morning light stream in from the blinds, illuminating his bare-bones room. A bed (with plenty of the quilts he inherited from his grandmother -- he tended to get cold at night), a few pictures of Joshua (hung with removable strips -- his apartment lease prohibited nails), a lamp decorated with rabbit stickers (courtesy of Joshua), and a dresser. He never was one for interior decoration, only kept the living areas of the house decorated for the sake of providing normalcy for his son.

With his glasses on, Gordon would pull on the sweater he kept next to the bed (also made by his grandmother, before she passed), lift Joshua, and return him to his room. Not to put the child back to bed, no, but to get him his raincoat and boots (also rabbit themed, for Joshua had quite the bias).

Hand in hand, Gordon would walk him to the back deck, rain still pouring, where he would sit on the singular lawn chair, coffee in hand, watching Joshua hop puddle to puddle, picking worms off the sidewalk to bring back to his father, explaining, "The big one's the dad. He's wider, like you --" ("Oof, Josh, low blow," Gordon would reply) "-- The little one is me, because I'm little." 

Gordon didn't have the heart to tell him that the 'little' worm he had brought was a normal worm cut in half.

They would head inside after Joshua got bored of the frogs and the mud, and Gordon would carry the messy child to the bathtub, hose him down, then change into his daytime clothing. "Do me a solid and don't get these dirty yet, alright?"

Joshua would smile a big, two-front-teeth missing grin, and say, "Why?"

"We've got guests coming in a little bit, and I don't want CPS called on me because a little someone is covered in mud."

Joshua would stick out his tongue, pretending to think, then would say, "... Deal!"

The guests were three men in long, white lab coats. 

Joshua would jump on the lap of the tallest and youngest, silently declaring him his favourite, most likely because he mentioned having a dog. Kids are simple like that. The other two, the 'old men', as Joshua had called them, would sit leaning on one another, telling stories about his father, Gordon sometimes turning red in the cheeks and pulling his hair to cover his face, all three of the men chuckling at his embarrassment. The tall man would ask how old Joshua was, and he'd declare he was five, no, four, no, six, before Gordon cleared up the confusion.

Later, after the three men had left, another would show up. A tired man in a blue uniform. He'd bring a little TV, asked if Joshua liked video games. Joshua would reply that he liked board games better, that he always beat his dad at Monopoly because he sucks at it, a whole lot. The blue man would throw his head back at that, laughing loudly, calling Gordon words that Joshua hadn't heard before. Joshua would be entranced by the little screen, and the blue man would explain it was something called Kirby. Gordon also did not know it was Kirby. Blue man would call Gordon some more words that Joshua didn't understand, but really didn't care at the moment, because his new focus was the little pink creature walking around the screen. Joshua liked pink.

While Joshua cradled the little TV in his hands like it was the most precious thing he had seen in his short life, Gordon and the blue man would sit on the couch together, not unlike the way the two old men had earlier. Hand in hand, Gordon would listen to the other explain the plot of a new game he liked, nodding while the other paused -- searching for the right word -- then continued, complaining about some obscure detail that was changed in the remake. The blue man talked slow, monotone, sentences often drifting off to a mumble. But Joshua's father listened, and the blue man listened back. The blue man was nice, Joshua would come to decide.

"Hey, Gordon," the blue man would say,

"Gordon. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon. G -- Gordon." His speech would dissolve.

"G-G-G-Gordon," The blue man would say.

"..."

" _Hello, world!_ " Said the blue man.

\----

Gordon jolted awake, eyes wide in the darkness, but was held down firmly by an arm around his middle. He struggled, something had him, he let his focus slip, he was going to be _reset_ , again and again --

A groggy voice came from the darkness, asking, "Bro?"

Ah. What had him held down was none other than the enigmatic Benrey.

But, looking at their current layout, it seemed he was harmless in the current context. They must have fallen asleep in their previous position -- side by side, on top of the crate. Gordon didn't remember Benrey sleeping, so it must have been himself who clonked out first. Either way, the guard had flipped to his stomach and slumped over at some point during the night, bottom half sliding off the box, arms thrown out to the sides, one over Gordon's leg -- no, it was 'legs' this time. He looked like a crucifix that was left on the dashboard of a hot car, or maybe a starfish that was stomped under a crowd of cattle. How in the hell could he sleep like that?

Gordon ran a hand through his hair, and took a good look at his surroundings, trying to remember what had last happened. The group was talking, it was late, Bubby fell asleep first, then Tommy, then Coomer, then Benrey had declared that he didn't sleep, and Gordon had called bullshit, and... The rest was obvious history.

Now, with the first light of dawn shining through the window, Gordon's eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could see that Coomer and Bubby were still knocked out, Bubby leaning against Coomer like a pillow, Tommy sleeping curled on his legs.

In front of Gordon, though, was a very confused Benrey, sitting back up on their box.

"Bro," Benrey stated, insight never failing to shine through, letting his head drop against the wood. "Sleep? Please?"

"Can't you sleep on your own? The HEV suit _cannot_ be that comfortable to rest against." Gordon whispered, feigning annoyance.

"..."

"Benrey?"

"..."

"Benrey."

"... 'S cold."

He was not wrong. It _was_ cold. A very convincing argument, and the HEV suit, being a machine, produced a fair amount of warmth -- Freeman, what are you _doing_? Sharing warmth with the man who has let your limbs be cut off time after time, who would probably watch you die and do _nothing_ to stop it? Get a _hold_ of yourself! You're trying to survive 'till the end, remember?

Still, Gordon pushed Benrey away with only a gentle hand, muttering, "Sorry, buddy, but your heating blanket has important business matters to attend to."

Gordon slipped out from underneath the limbs, ignoring Benrey's annoyed grumble that sounded suspiciously like " _cringe doctor feetman_ ". 

Straightening his glasses, Gordon stepped out into the hall, careful not to wake the sleeping pile of scientists on the floor, closing the door as softly as he could behind him. The rooms were shaded in darkness, various lasers casting colours on to the walls and furniture. Gordon rested his back against the wall and sank to the floor. He needed some alone time.

The day was rising, but Gordon was very much not. That dream he had was... Questionable, to say the least. Had some part of his brain forgotten how much these people had _terrorized_ him? Were a few hours of familial joy all it took for him to lose all caution? Pathetic.

He couldn't let his guard down again. Both for his own sake and for the sake of his companions. He was betting on this all ending when he got out of Black Mesa, and could only hope that would free the others, as well. If... If there was anything to free. 'Reality' was still a shakey concept for him.

The goal was clear. He was to survive until they managed to escape.

For the first time since the night before, Gordon's shoulder began to ache.

\-----

"Gordon! I believe we have to continue through this room."

Of course.

Of course, Black Mesa had danger in spades, and of course, they had to venture through every single previously mentioned Black Mesa danger on their way to their destination. It was a wonder that Gordon got so far on his first try -- A room full of lasers was, for some odd reason, far more daunting the second time you encounter it.

But, even though he had prioritized surviving, Gordon had to make progress, which meant traipsing around all of the sharp, jagged edges of broken machinery with trigger-happy companions.

Honestly, one would have expected Black Mesa to have stronger materials built into their machines. Gordon felt that these could snap at any time and impale him like a skewer. One world-bending scenario was all it took to take down your super important automated thingamabobs with individual hyper-specific uses? Weak.

Gordon's grip on his shoulder tightened as he walked through the sliding chrome doorway into the next room.

"A hole," Gordon said.

"Hole," Bubby declared.

"Hole," Coomer agreed.

Yes, it was a hole. To be more accurate, it was a pit. Scaffolding formed a walkway over an approximately 15-meter drop, if Gordon were to eyeball it. The scaffolding was strapped to the ceiling with a thick cord but had no rails. The area had to have been under construction before the incident. Maybe it would have become a useful addition to the Black Mesa facility one day, but at that moment, all it was doing was making Gordon feel dizzy.

"C'mon, little baby coward," Benrey called, already on halfway over the slightly swinging path. He jumped, once, twice, trying to make a point about the stability.

"For real, check this shit out. It's so safe, I could do a backflip or something. Extra MLG sick tricks."

Coomer called, "I, for one, can also do a backflip!"

Stepping forward, Gordon put his hand on the cable, shouting back, "For fuck's sake, I'd _love_ to see your epic backflips, but save it for later?"

"Bro, I do a backflip every day of my life. Just ask. Just ask, I'll do a backflip."

"I'm not asking you to do a backflip."

"Please."

"... _No?_ " 

It honestly wasn't that difficult of a task, Gordon knew. Even with Benrey hopping on the far end, causing the whole structure to swing back and forth. He just had to walk across without looking down or screwing up tragically and losing all of his progress so far. Easy. Right?

He grasped the thick rope like a lifeline and took his first step on to the metal. He took a step back. All in due time. 

A hand grabbed his undamaged shoulder, and Gordon swung around, reaching for the gun he didn't have. 

"Remember, Mr. Freeman, it's all OSHA regulated -- it's safe!" Hello, Tommy. 

Gordon let out a breath and nodded, "Yeah, you're right. It'd be even easier if we didn't have to jump through _all these hoops_ , but! Beggars can't be choosers, huh, Tommy?"

Tommy only nodded, pulling Gordon away from the scaffolding. "Tommy?" Gordon repeated.

"Mr. Freeman, if you don't stop moving, you're -- you're gonna fall off," he nudged his way in front of Gordon, then took his arm, and said, "Follow my lead! I already know the best way across here!"

How...?

Face straight ahead, Tommy led Gordon out on to the precarious walkway, leaving him no choice but to follow. Now that his breath was evening, Gordon also noticed that Benrey had stopped jumping and shaking the path. Instead, he sat on the ledge of the other side, head in his hands, waiting patiently. Leave it to Benrey to only listen when Tommy wants to do something. Guess they weren't too different.

Step forward, right foot, left foot. Just like Tommy had. He had a pattern in the way he walked, and if nothing else, Gordon could follow patterns.

And yet, when the metal let out a low creak in the middle, Gordon stopped completely and tugged Tommy's arm.

"Tommy. Tommy," Gordon said, "Be careful."

The arm he was holding tugged back, forcing him to continue. "I -- _I'm an adult, Mr. Freeman._ You're the one who needed help here." Tommy replied, annoyance clear.

Whoops. Check yourself, Gordon. He's thirty-six, and also _not your son._

Right foot, left foot. When in doubt, go back to your patterns.

When they reached the stable ground, Gordon plopped down next to Benrey, relief sinking in. At least that was over. Unless, of course, he ended up dying again. God, it was so easy to forget about that constant clause in his thoughts.

"Hey," Benrey said, leaning towards Gordon and elbowing him.

"... What."

"He's _thirty-six_."

"I _know_ that! I apologize full-heartedly! What more do you want from me?"

"Just, uh," Benrey stopped. Gordon waited. "Don't let me catch you infantilizing my bro, you catch my drift?"

Gordon put his head down. "I hear you, loud and clear."

"Awesome sauce. Uh, bro." 

"... Am I a bro, too?" Gordon couldn't decide whether that would be a good thing or not.

Benrey gave him an odd look. "Yeah, we talked about this, dumbass. You got amnesia or something?"

When did they do that...? Was Gordon forgetting things, or did it just get mixed up in the changing memories? Was this the unknown difference in this timeline? From the look on Benrey's typically-smug face (he looked almost... disappointed?), this must have been something important.

"We had a buddy-buddy conversation. You said we could be best buds. Bros. C'mon. You can't revoke that kind of thing now," Benrey said, mouth drawn in a line.

Gordon paused, searching his memory. Without a doubt, before the current timeline, no fully conscious Gordon would have agreed to be Benrey's friend. This was new, something specific to this round.

Benrey nudged him again. Was there any harm to... being friends? 

"I can also go back to using 'sweetheart', 'darling', 'honey', 'baby' --"

" _No!_ " Gordon lunged forward, smothering Benrey's mouth with his palms. Maybe... maybe he shouted that a bit loud. He continued, with a quieter tone, asking, "Okay, we're friends. Does that make you happy?"

Gordon lowered his hands.

From the menacing, unhumanly-wide grin on Benrey's face, the answer was a resounding ' _yes_ '.

\----

The next area was a control room, small in size, but with plenty to look at. A large window spanned the walls, and a desk was placed in the corner, the control panel on top. The window opened to display a large metal arm, broken and unstable, tilted awkwardly and resting against the door that they needed to get through. Evidently, their goal was to move the machine.

A swivel chair was also pushed under the desk. 

Bubby immediately ran over and took his place in the swivel chair, rotating back and forth like a swing.

Gordon asked, "Since you're in the operator's chair, does that mean you know what all these buttons mean?"

"Oh, I could probably figure it out. I don't have all this knowledge for nothing, Gordon," He said, already scanning the colours and switches on the box.

"..." 

Bubby shrugged. "I've got nothin'! We're screwed!"

Seriously? Gordon wasn't even sure he looked at it for that long. 

"Now, Bubby, look here," Coomer said, reaching over Gordon to point out a label, " _'Arm controls.'_ "

Bubby leaned forward, pushed up his glasses (oh, god, and Gordon was reminded of the eye thing), and stared at Coomer's revelation.

"... Of course! Great Scott, Coomer, you're a genius! A genius... there's still a lot of switches. But it doesn't matter, because you're a genius!"

Rolling his eyes at the exaggerated displays of vocal affection the two doctors had caught themselves up in, Gordon took a closer look at the switches under the label.

There were twenty-six switches in total, all matching up with a letter of the alphabet. With a glance around, Gordon noticed a small laminated paper stuck to the wall next to the desk.

On the paper was a depiction of the same metal arm as the one in the next room, with twenty-six articulated joints marked. Below were twenty-six letter formulas, each paired up with a scrambled number and letter. Number seven and number four were ripped out of the paper. Below all of it, in all caps, was the word ' _KEYBOARD_ ' in comic sans.

"Hey."

The voice behind Gordon made him hop a few centimeters in the air.

"Whoa, bro, don't piss yourself." Benrey nudged him out of the way to inspect the paper alongside him.

Benrey pointed a finger to the missing codes. "Look," he said, "Those two have to be it. Like a video game."

"I see what you mean, but I'd like to remind you that this isn't a video game, and life doesn't usually work like that," Gordon said, ignoring the fact that Benrey was probably right.

"We're missing 'Q' and 'W'," declared Bubby. "Search the room, everyone!"

Guess they were going with Benrey's plan anyways.

... It didn't work as they had hoped. Everyone spread out as much as they could in the small area, searching the walls and floor for the small scraps of paper, or maybe even another clue as to which formula was the correct one. No such luck was found, though. Bubby found a paperclip and a pen, though. Good job, Bubby!

After a good hour, Gordon called for a group meeting.

With everyone sitting on the floor, he paced a hole in the ground, hands on his hips. The longer he stayed in this room, the more likely he was to get trapped. Being trapped meant being unable to escape. Being unable to escape meant death.

He stopped and turned to the group, all of the scientists sitting on the floor, Benrey taking the chair and spinning in circles.

"Listen," Gordon said, "I know we were gonna go with Benrey's plan, but I think we're gonna need a plan B. I -- I learned a trick, from a friend, a guard, when I started at Black Mesa. All of the vents are connected. Now, I may be out of practice, but I think we can use the vents to get out of here. I want you guys to find any vents in this room, alright?"

The scientists nodded, Benrey shrugged, and they set off on their way.

Within minutes, Gordon heard Tommy call him over, suddenly shouting, "Mr. Freeman! Look!"

Standing on top of a box, Tommy had pulled a cover off a vent and placed the grate on the floor, but then hesitated, and picked something off of the metal.

Tommy had his hands clasped together, holding something. Gordon stared. "What? Did you catch a moth or something?"

He opened his hands. Tommy was holding none other than paper 'W'.

So much for not completing Benrey's idea. Gordon could practically feel the grin behind him.

The code on the paper read ' _IDQD_ ', with a seven to the left. It matched up with the laminated paper correctly. Therefore, this had to be their answer, because they weren't going to be finding paper Q anytime soon. 

Benrey reasoned, "It says 'keyboard' on the paper, and 'W' is 'up' on a keyboard. It'll move the thingy up."

"Once again, not a video game. Life just doesn't work in straightforward puzzles."

Benrey crossed his arms. "Bro. Do you have a better idea."

"... No."

Gordon handed the paper to Bubby, who had reclaimed the swivel chair while Gordon's back was turned. He silently acknowledged the paper, flipping the switches back and forth according to the code.

"Go ahead, Gordon. Do the honours." He gestured to a large red button to the right of the control panel.

Gordon pressed the button. A whirring noise erupted from behind the glass, signifying that something within the machine had begun to move. The arms lurched around, wires snapping with each movement.

It was working!

Something within the machinery snapped. The noise of metal sliding sharply against metal -- not unlike a knife being sharpened -- echoed throughout the chamber. The noise came closer, closer, and then --

The glass in front of them shattered into millions of pieces.

_Was that blood?_

Where did the blood come from? Gordon didn't feel anything, had he already died? No, he could still feel his body.

He patted his abdomen, looking for any ruptures. No, it wasn't him. Now scanning his surroundings, he noticed an awfully frantic Bubby, pulling his lab coat off. Was he hurt? No, with the coat off, Gordon could clearly see that he had no blood on him. Bubby balled his coat up and brought it to...

Gordon felt bile rise in his throat.

A metal pipe, maybe two inches in diameter, impaled Tommy to the wall through the chest.

"Mr. Freeman?"

The metal must have punctured his heart, letting the blood fill his lungs, causing his words to come out gargled.

"Mr. Freeman, I'm hurt," Tommy repeated. His lab coat turned red.

Tommy's voice distorted, sounding nothing like his own. " _Doc, I'm hurt! I need a medkit --_ " The sound died, cut off like a microphone being covered.

Gordon was frozen to the floor. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was always him who died, not the others. 

"I -- Yeah. Yeah, I know. You'll be alright."

But don't they always come back, Gordon? Don't they always _respawn_ (somewhere in his mind, Gordon questioned his use of that word -- didn't he just say that their situation wasn't a video game)?

"We'll fix this."

Pressing his coat around the wound, Coomer said something to Bubby, but it was quiet enough that Gordon couldn't hear it. He stepped forward, careful, wanting to show that he was here to help, not to harm. Bubby and Benrey left the room.

"Coomer," Gordon said, voice low, "Tommy will come back, right? You guys always do. Right?"

Coomer didn't respond, only pushed down on the coats harder, and patted the side of Tommy's paling face.

"Coomer, please, I know you know the most about this stuff. Please tell me." Gordon said, grabbing at his sleeve with his only hand.

" _Hello, G--_ " Coomer started, then clamped his mouth shut, then continued, simple and slow, 

" _T_ here are cons to becoming _'real'._ "

Tommy's head slumped forward, eyes unfocused. Red lines trailed from his lips to his chin, dropping down on to the white of his lab coat like the rain off the roof of Gordon's old apartment. His eyes burned, tears spilling over the edge.

"You guys won't come back?" His bottom lip curled and he bit his tongue.

"Hello, Gor-- No. No, we won't. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, it wouldn't let me. My knowledge of our scenario is technically a flaw, after all."

"He's not," Gordon reached his hand up to Tommy, now slumped over on to Coomer, more still than he had ever seen him before, "He's not gone, though."

Bubby and Benrey returned, medkit in hand. But, instead of administering it to Tommy, Bubby placed it on the countertop and sat down in a chair, hands folded in his lap. Benrey was looking out the splintered glass window, and from the way his shoulders were shaking, Gordon was sure he didn't want to see Benrey's face.

Tommy didn't deserve this. Gordon would fix it.

"Someone give me their gun," Gordon requested. No one heeded his command.

"Someone, **_give me your gun!_** " 

His shout bounced off the walls. He hated how he sounded, so angry, so cruel, so he added, tone now soft, "Please."

Bubby pinched his nose, then took out a pistol, holding it out by the grip. Safety off.

He reached out with his right hand, a sharp pain shooting through his body reminding him that _he didn't have a right hand_... at least, for now.

Now moving with his left, Gordon held the gun, considered struggling it himself, then turned to Coomer, and presented the firearm.

"Do you mind...?"

Coomer asked, "Is this what the voice meant?"

Gordon wasn't sure what he meant by that, or if it was rhetorical. Coomer took the gun, turned away from Tommy -- Tommy's _corpse_ , Gordon reminded himself, and lifted the gun to Gordon's head.

Gordon didn't turn away, but he could hear Benrey turn and move from his spot.

"Whoa --" Benrey grabbed Coomer's arm. "Coomer, no. _Stop_ , I -- Passport?" He asked.

Gordon considered the scene in front of him and couldn't suppress a chuckle. "This sure is a change from the last few times," He said. "At least you guys have the sense to act concerned this round."

Benrey gave him the most confused look he had ever seen grace his face. Gordon chuckled again.

"Could I see your passport," Benrey said, but the words didn't match up with his mouth. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't say the words.

The gun weighed heavily against the middle of his head, but Gordon was sure it was nothing compared to the weight in Coomer's hand.

"Hello, Gordon," He said, "... What happens? After? Hello -- To us?"

Gordon wasn't sure.

"You'll just have to ask Tommy, next time you see him."

The last pain Gordon felt was the burning agony of a missing arm.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took longer than usual! about half way through my original, i decided i hated the pacing... for some reason. and i still do, yes, but i'd rather get this out there and move on than fuck with it for another few hours. ALSO. at some point i'm going to go back and outline all the little references to other media in each chapter. ty for reading folks


	6. i'm half crazy, all for the love of you

Red, green, blue, black, white, grey.

" _You're getting used to this._ "

That _fucking_ voice. It was back in his head, all echoey and cold. 

Gordon couldn't feel his body, he wasn't sure if he could even speak, but somehow, he felt a rage build in his chest.

Gordon screamed at the grey void. Surprisingly, it worked. The noise was sharp and cracked, his voice rough, but it worked.

" _Can you, like, not be so loud?_ "

It could hear him?

Gordon searched for words. He wasn't sure how much time he had before the world came back, he had to make this count, had to get answers...

He decided to keep it vague, general, and asked, "Is any of this real?"

The voice paused. " _No. No one is real, nor are any memories you have._ "

If Gordon had his body, he would have vomited.

" _But, is anything, really?_ " The voice continued. " _I consider myself real, but I'm sure there are things out there that would say differently. It's the same case with you._ "

He could hear a deep breath in.

" _You're as real as you make yourself, Gordon._ "

"... Why are you doing this to me?"

All of the previous introspection, all empathy, all consideration, left the voice.

" _ **I just wanted to play a game.**_ "

The ground suddenly appeared under his feet and Gordon toppled over, crashing against the ground, vision going black. He hadn't noticed his surroundings before falling, so anything could happen to him at that moment.  


He waited. And waited. 

No pain overtook any of his limbs, nor did he feel the sudden shock of a bullet. Strangely enough, he also heard no noise, only... birds?

He lifted his head from the ground, taking in his surroundings.

Gordon was out of the HEV suit and outside Black Mesa.

As reality (unreality?) crushed in upon him, Gordon's breath sped up, and he clawed at the sidewalk leading to the gate.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't. Not anymore. Please, _please_ , don't make him do that again. No one would remember him, he'd feel everything all over again.

Just on time, right on script, the emergency exit opened, and out walked a security guard, same _stupid_ fucking face as Benrey, only with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, appraising the scene in front of him -- a grown man, throwing an absolute fit on the sidewalk, hyperventilating and scrabbling at the concrete 'till his fingers left red streaks in the footprints.

Gordon looked up. He made eye contact with the guard. And, right on schedule, he leaped to his feet, wringing his now-bloody hands around the guard's shoulders.

"Kill me," he commanded.

The guard reached for his gun.

" _Kill me!_ Kill me, that's all I'm asking, just do me a solid here --"

A gun was pressed against his chest, and for a moment, Gordon smiled.

Red, green, blue, black, white, grey.

" _Why are you back here?_ " The voice asked, echoing, inquisitive.

Gordon was getting a hang of the whole 'void' thing.

"What is it that you _want_ , or what can I _do_ to get you to turn things back to normal?" He didn't feel like he was in the position to be asking questions, but perseverance was key.

The voice sighed, and Gordon could practically imagine them pressing their head into their palms.

" _There is no normal, dude._ " Irked tone shining through, the voice continued, " _ You can only do one thing -- 'Be'. I'm not evil, and, admittedly, I don't mind you. Anything that happens in your playthrough is of your own doing. If you want the best results, just... exist, ironically enough. No, you are not real. Yes, I am asking you to trust me. _ "

One last breath in.

" _There's no way out. Don't worry so much, alright? You're not getting any more info from me._ "

The grey evolved to colour and he tumbled to the ground yet again, eyesight donned in black.

Gordon's vision faded in, and he placed his palms against the floor and lifted his head.

First things first -- It was definitely dark. He didn't recognize the room, but considering that, after his vision adjusted, he could see windows, he assumed it must be night.

Second, he wasn't missing any limbs. It took a thorough check, patting down his body to see if anything was missing and he just hadn't noticed it yet. They all were there.

Third, he was alone.

Fourth, Gordon was nervous.

He had just gotten full confirmation that neither he nor his memories were real, all simply a ruse. But for what purpose, he wasn't quite sure. Was he a toy? They had said that they just wanted to play a game like some fucked up Jigsaw. But, it wasn't quite the same, was it? They had said that their intent wasn't malicious. And, another thing, Jigsaw played with real people, which he was not --

He wasn't real.

It wasn't as if he hadn't thought this before, _hell_ , even before Black Mesa, who doesn't entertain the thought every once in a while? It's always a possibility, after all. But the confirmation, oh, the confirmation. _You weren't real_. There was no point to anything, no effect from your actions because it was nothing more than your perception. 

Gordon was a man of science. He was a man of reason. He wasn't sure how to reason with his current situation. Rationality didn't exist here.

He sat down again, legs pulled against his chest, and wrapped his arms around his legs. Rocked himself, back, forth, back, forth. He took his glasses from the bridge of his nose, feeling for his eyes.

What did this mean for his home? His family? He didn't have much left, true, but _Joshua_... Oh, Joshua. Outside of Black Mesa, would Joshua still be there? Would he ever see his child again? 

Lungs compressing, throat tightening, he pressed his head against his knees, feeling the cold of the linoleum ground against his legs. He hiccuped a muffled cry, gumming his mouth and leaking nose on the metal of his HEV suit.

Cogito Ergo Sum. He thought, therefore he wasn't. But what 'was'? God? Was the mysterious voice ' _God_ '? Gordon hoped not. God seemed like an asshole. He didn't want the only real thing he knew to be so rude.

Tommy was impaled. Did it matter? He was just a fabrication ( _a fabrication, yes, but one that you would and have died for_ , his brain replied). All of his pain, all of his care, could be erased as quickly as Gordon raised a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger, or attacked an armed officer.

But, no matter what he did, Gordon couldn't escape this trick, could he? No matter how he took himself out, he'd be dropped back where he started. It was a never-ending loop, and he was embedded in it.

There was nothing he could do, and nothing he couldn't do.

Though his voice was shaky, mouth dry, Gordon voiced his thoughts to the shade of the room, quietly,

"I want to see my son."

The room replied with silence.

In another life, Gordon had appreciated the quiet. Found it calming, a reassurance that there would always be time to rest after the battle. Now, it felt smothering. A reminder, mocking, taunting: he had no choice, nor any value.

"What was that, Gordon?"

Fuck. If he could've jumped ten feet in the air like a cartoon, he would have. Coomer's voice echoed through the darkness, footsteps following.

"Hello, Gordon?" God, he fucking _hated_ that sentence with every fiber of his apparently non-existent body. "Where are you? Did you get stuck?"

Stuck? Not physically. 

Gordon wasn't fond of seeing anyone from the science team right now. He slid himself over to the corner, and, steeling his nerves, calming his voice, replied, "I'm fine."

"Were you not going to use the restroom? I was going to ask if you had found it yet."

"Nope. I'll get to it."

"Do you need any help with that? Finding the restroom, of course."

"No."

Coomer paused, blindly stepped around the room a bit, then kneeled, around ten feet from Gordon's own spot.

"Care to tell me why you're on the floor, Gordon?" He asked.

Had Coomer always been this nosy? Gordon's patience was running low. All he asked was to wallow in peace. Was that too much for this hell of a world?

Like a kid, Gordon grumbled in reply. He really _did_ feel like a child being coaxed out by their guardian after being spooked by something scary, maybe a thunderstorm. 

The shuffling came closer, and before Gordon knew it, there was a hand on his leg, then one on top of his head. " _Ah, there you are!_ "

Gordon looked up, and through the darkness, he could just quite see Coomer's smiling face, cheeks tilted up, eyes wrinkled at the edges. Friendly. As said eyes scanned his face, though, they slowly creased in confusion. 

He swallowed the cotton in his throat and the thoughts telling him to quiet himself, and asked, "Coomer, what would you say if I told you that none of this was real?"

The thick white eyebrows furrowed, and Coomer nodded, saying, "I had feared so."

"You believe me?"

"Fortunately."

The relief one feels when finding someone that shares their experiences is nearly indescribable, the catharsis like a wave, but, to summarize Gordon's emotions at the moment:

He started crying. Again.

If Benrey had been in the room, Gordon was sure he'd be labeled a "little whiny baby, need a nap, baby" (and, _god_ , did Gordon _feel_ like a fucking baby, with all the crying he had been doing), but he wasn't, it was only Coomer, and Coomer wasn't judging him at all.

Another fact about Coomer -- he really does give just as great of hugs as one may expect.

Gordon let himself be tugged forward, swallowing his pride, and strong arms wrapped around his torso, petting against the back of his head, where he wasn't covered by the HEV suit. In response, Gordon tucked his head against Coomer's shoulder, balling his fists in his lab coat. He was sure his leaking eyes, nose, and mouth were leaving an uncomfortable wet spot, but he didn't seem to mind. A grown man, clinging to another like a lost child.

Coomer continued to pet Gordon's hair, pace even and grounding, as he said, "Gordon, I am going to need you to explain. Can you do that for me?"

"I, uh, die. A lot."

He could feel Coomer nod.

"And -- and then I'm not dead. I wake up at random times, who fucking knows why. And a -- a voice says things to me. The voice is a _douche_."

Coomer paused. "What does this voice sound like?"

He hadn't really thought of it. Gordon wracked his brain for a way to describe it. "... Young. Sometimes, uh... Introspective, I guess. Usually rude. Never really says much, just comments on how I did."

No response. Gordon fidgeted with the lab coat in his hands, balling it up between his fingers, feeling the fabric between his knuckles. "You aren't, uh, starting to think I'm crazy or something, right?"

"Hello, Gordon!"

Gordon shoved himself away. No, no. Please, he had just found someone, don't take this from him, just like they had with Tommy --

"Oh, doggone it!" Coomer slapped a hand across his knee. "I meant to say -- Hello, Gordon -- gah!"

With bleary eyes, Gordon watched Coomer struggle to get his point across. He had never seen the older man get this frustrated. The words looked to be on the tip of his tongue but kept getting cut off.

"Are... are you trying to tell me you know what the voice _is_?"

Coomer shook his head, still gesturing. "Back a few steps, my boy!"

"You hear the voice."

" _Yes_! It seems awfully easy for you to say it!" Clapping his hands together, Coomer continued. "It comes during the night, giving me tidbits of advice. Kind soul! Not sure how it decides what I am and am not allowed to say, though, because I typically tell my dear Bubby everything!"

Gordon slumped against the wall. They knew, this whole time? And he had been swallowing his thoughts for how long? He was very, very tired.

The door on the far side of the room swung open and in marched Bubby. "You two, get in here! We're dissecting a headcrab! Why are you on the floor, we've got party games! Pin the organ on the alien!"

"Oh, Bubby! We were just talking," Coomer glanced at Gordon, still leaning limply against the wall, face snotty and red, "are you ready, Gordon?"

Gordon nodded and was led by the hand to the next room (like a child, his mind reminded him).

Tommy (oh, Tommy, he was never going to be able to look at him the same way again) and Benrey sat in the corner, making various paper airplanes with scavenged pen and paper, a gruesomely split open headcrab not far from them. 

Benrey looked up at him, looking from the way he crowded against Coomer to his messy face and hair, and said, "Woooow. Do I wanna even _ask_ what happened on the way to the bathroom?"

As he felt the squeeze of Coomer's hand, Gordon didn't bother responding.

Plopping down between Tommy and Coomer, Gordon looked down upon the viscera before him. He let himself doze. 

Something knocked against the lens of his glasses.

Opening his eyes, Gordon saw a paper airplane fall between his legs, rather shittily folded, with a crude drawing of a foot and... what he could only assume was supposed to be him, considering the glasses. It looked more like a clown, but what did he know about art?

"Yo, mind throwing my masterpiece back here?"

"Mmhm..." Gordon's head nodded against the wall, and suddenly, through his post-panic attack hazy mind, he had a wicked idea.

"... This is your masterpiece?" He lifted the airplane, turning it and viewing the angles. There were a few more crossed out stickman drawings on the other sides.

"Yeaaaah. It is. Toss it on over here."

Gordon grinned. "... It looks a bit shit."

"Oh! Rude!" Tommy gasped, and Benrey launched up from his seat, stomped over to Gordon, and crouched down to eye-level.

He pointed at his face, jabbing a finger at his glasses, slightly pushing them back up his nose. "That's my line. You don't get to say my line."

"Mhm. Can I, uh, see your, uh... _line passport?_ "

"That one didn't even make sense and you know it."

Gordon only smiled sweetly in response. It was nice to be the annoying one for once, and, though he hated to lose focus, goofing off was really helping to keep him from floating off into despair. "Y'know, I think you're just mad -- mad that I pull your jokes off better than you."

"Hey, no," Benrey said, "You don't. Because they don't make sense."

"They totally do, you're just not on my wavelength."

"No."

"Yes."

Grabbing his arm, Benrey pried the paper airplane out of his grasp. Fuck, he had a strong grip when he wanted to, didn't he? After wrenching Gordon's hand open, Benrey held the little paper in his hands and inspected it for damage. 

He gestured to the plane, hand flat, and eyebrows raised. "You bent it."

"Oh, _gosh_ ," Gordon sarcastically drew out his words, "I formally apologize. Isn't it just paper, though? You can make another."

"... No. You bent it. You know what that means?"

Tommy piped up from his seat. "Yeah, Mr. Freeman, that means you've gotta make him one! It's -- it balances it out!"

Well, he definitely could make a paper airplane, and he _could_ give it to Benrey, but were there not far, _far_ more pressing matters at hand? Like, y' know, his newfound inexistence, the new information bestowed to him by Coomer, and, _hell_ , he still hadn't even fully comprehended Tommy's death and the mortality of his team, and that had happened two deaths ago. Gordon was far behind on his list of things to process, and it was only getting longer.

A hand on his startled him from his thoughts.

Coomer, sitting knee to knee with Bubby, dissecting the headcrab with a switchblade. _Ew_. Those two really didn't change, did they?

Smiling, Coomer patted his hand. "Say, Gordon, I know you're already insurmountably indebted to Benrey to make him a plane, but do you mind making me one, as well?"

Could he say no to such a pure-hearted request?

Gordon faked a begrudging sigh (he would never admit it, but he had wanted to join in since the beginning), stood from his seat, and moved over to Tommy and Benrey's little circle.

When was the last time he had made something as simple and straightforward as a paper airplane? Gordon wracked his brain, thinking back. It had to have been sometime before college, maybe in high school? Oddly enough, he couldn't remember ever seeing Joshua make a paper airplane. It was such a menial task that yielded little reward, but it was rather... cute.

He settled in his spot and ripped out a piece of notebook paper. "Alright. Paper airplanes. Can't say I expected this, so I'll admit, I'm, uh, a little rusty."

"It's okay, Mr. Freeman! Benrey and I will help you!"

"I don't have to help him with shit."

Glaring, Gordon snapped back, saying, "Then why'd you ask me to make you one?"

Tommy's voice took on a doubtful tone. "... Benrey, didn't you want him to join in the first place?"

"Huh? I don't know what you're talking about," Benrey said. Tommy continued to stare, sad eyes burrowing into the side of the guard's skull. He sighed in defeat. 

"... What'd you need help with?"

Gordon gestured to the paper as a whole, and when neither Tommy nor Benrey moved to educate him, he shrugged and began folding the paper in the way that he _assumed_ you used to make a plane.

The paper was folded in half, which must have been the right move because neither of his peers stopped him. He then folded each side outwards, making three folds across the length of the paper. Benrey swiped the page from his hands.

"No."

He flattened the paper, then, with a few movements of his hand, started the airplane. Gordon had tried to discern the steps but failed to recognize the correct patterns. He raised a hand to stop Benrey from completing the plane himself. " _Whoa_ , hey, that's not teaching! Can't you like, I dunno, explain your process?"

"Maybe you should just do better."

Tommy glared. Benrey fidgeted but didn't retract his statement. 

" _Well_ , I - I don't think Mr. Freeman _can_ do better unless he knows how. Which, which is a process that needs _cooperation_." Saying the last sentence slowly, Tommy emphasized each word. "And, and that means you need to help him with it. You gotta teach him, Benrey."

He scoffed, but Benrey scooted a little closer to Gordon, unfolding the paper and placing it between them. "Okay, dude, do what you were doing."

Gordon folded the paper, then looked up to Benrey, waiting for his next command.

"Uh, fold the top into a little triangle." He moved Gordon's hand, only for a moment, to outline where the folds needed to crease. "Like that."

Briefly, Gordon considered making a fuss out of the situation, maybe a sneer, a ' _why should I listen to you_ ', but he didn't. He didn't really _want_ to argue. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the mental crisis, or the calmness of his surroundings, but something in Gordon's brain allowed him to do as he was told. He listened to Benrey and didn't feel any annoyance in doing so. Benrey spoke without malice, waiting for Gordon to catch up, sprinkling suggestions in with the commands as to not sound too pushy. When Benrey lost his words, repeated a phrase, or trailed off to a mumble, Gordon didn't push, only waited.

And, before he knew it, there was another notebook-striped paper airplane resting in his hands.

"Niiiice. Lookin' good." Benrey said, admiring their handiwork. It has better folds than Benrey's original, considering Gordon's insistence that they had to be _perfect_ , and the design was a little more complex, following Gordon's input into the aerodynamics of the plane.

Tommy held out a pen to them. "Now, for the best part. Decorate it!"

Gordon took the pen, inspecting it. The utensil had green ink and was missing a cap. A green pen? Who the hell uses a green pen? He tapped the pen against his chin, considering what to draw. Personally, he had never exactly been a creative type, more so focusing on STEM, as proven by his field of study. Also, he was a bit shit at drawing.

Well, no use not trying. Gordon put the pen to the paper, drawing little geometric shapes on the wings. One side became decorated with interlocking hexagons and triangles, while the other had parallelograms drawn together to form the appearance of cubes. Under one of the wings, he wrote ' _FOR BENREY_ ', and next to it, he drew what he hoped looked like a rabbit.

"Here," Gordon said, presenting his masterpiece to the guard next to him, "Here's your dumb plane."

Benrey looked at the creation, looked at him, looked back down, then smiled. Not a grin, a smile.

"It's _not_ dumb," He declared.

"Oh?"

"Nah, man. It's epic." Taking the airplane from him, Benrey lifted the wings, inspecting the designs covering the paper. The giddy smile never left his face.

"Gordon," Coomer called, a knife in each hand, hopefully only holding on to them for Bubby, who was currently wrist-deep in headcrab stomach, "Do remember what I asked, my boy!"

What he asked...? About the voice? Oh, fuck, Gordon didn't want to think about that, he was having such a good time -- Oh!

He meant about the paper airplanes. Coomer had wanted one as well, Gordon remembered. That was why he had come over in the first place, wasn't it?

Remembering how Benrey had guided him, Gordon folded another plane, the process becoming much quicker the second time around. He didn't want to spend nearly as long on the designs as he did the first time, so instead, he meticulously drew perpendicular lines across the front of the plane and a ' _For Coomer :-]_ ' on the left side. Coomer's plane got a smiley face because, when Gordon thought of Coomer, he thought of smiley faces. Which sounded childish, yes, but Gordon didn't really care.

"Hey! Dr. Coomer, catch!" He shouted, and pitched the airplane in the doctor's direction.

Coomer looked up suddenly, and said, "My hands are a bit occupied right now!" Gordon winced as he realized his mistake.

The plane sailed over Bubby's head, and just as Gordon thought it was going to land directly in the middle of the gore, Coomer stabbed both knives into the corpse and scooted back to catch the plane with a bloody hand. It crumpled under his grip and was a little messy, but was otherwise unharmed.

"Gordon, you oaf!" Bubby yelled, "You're distracting my lab assistant!"

Whoops!

"Look, Bubby, it's a spaceship," Coomer presented the now-damp paper to his fellow doctor.

Bubby lifted his head to view the creation but only scoffed. "It would have flown better if you balanced the weight more, just so you know."

He was probably right. There was a lot they could do to tune their designs, and as scientists (or, at least he and Tommy were scientists. Benrey could be an honorary scientist) they should probably find some sort of fascination in that fact, but at that moment, Gordon was more than content to let their product be sort of shitty.

Sitting with Tommy excitedly explaining his paper penguin and the articles he had read about the history of origami, bumping shoulders with Benrey when one of them said something that the other considered dumb, listening to Bubby detail his new discoveries on the inner-workings of a headcrab, Gordon felt calm. 

He made eye contact with Coomer across the room. The elderly man's eyes wrinkled with a knowing smile.

No, it wasn't real, nor was it permanent. But, at that moment, Gordon couldn't bring himself to care.

Their moments were as real as he made them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kept asking myself, "is this too much about paper airplanes?" and maybe? but i like them. originally tommy and benrey were going to be play tic-tac-toh but i didn't think it had the same room for metaphors as airplanes did. also, still reading all of the comments, still loving all of them. i don't respond to all of them bc i can't properly express my gratitude without sounding like a broken record, but please know i do appreciate them :^]


	7. it won't be a stylish marriage, i can't afford a carriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter! sorry!
> 
> fun fact: this story was only supposed to last seven chapters in the original outline, each one corresponding to one of the seven deadly sins and a character from the story. obviously, this is no longer the case. the story sort of grew while writing -- gaining plot points before i could even properly plan them out. almost has a mind of it's own :^]

_"Please, please calm down."_

  
  


Gordon has blood on his hands.

  
  


_"Please don't hurt me. Dr. Freeman, stop. Don't hurt me."_

  
  


There was a pile of meat in front of him. It pulsed with a beat, flesh expanding with breath after heaving breath. Veins connected over the surface, a city of blood, pumping out of the injuries. It was still half alive.

  
  


Gordon didn't remember when it was that he picked up a crowbar, but it was in his hands now.

  
  


The... _thing_ seemed to expand, reaching the toes of his boots, arms waving violently. Was it too far gone to control its muscle movements? Lost to coherency?

  
  


A pity. Should he put it out of its misery?

  
  


He lifted the crowbar above his head, arms shaking with the effort. Was he this tired before? Or was this fear?

  
  


_"I'm afraid. I'm afraid, Gordon."_

  
  


The disgusting amalgamation closed in around his feet, rising up his leg. His legs, his legs. He couldn't feel his legs. Did he have legs this time?

  
  


Gordon tried to bring down the crowbar, he honestly did try, but it's so heavy, and he's so tired. The being rose up against his torso, eating away at his body, the HEV suit, dismantling the pieces, and tearing away the metal.

  
  


"I'm afraid," the mess of flesh said, reaching up to his throat. Gordon instinctively turned his head to the ceiling.

  
  


Instead of the drab grey pattern of Black Mesa, Gordon saw nighttime stars. Was he always outside?

  
  


The sky tore, colourful geometric shapes overtaking his vision, moving along with his eyes as he turns away. Fuck, that hurts. It's too bright, flickering too fast for him to stare like he wants to. It looked similar to a broken computer screen left on, just before it goes black forever.

  
  


Then, the flesh devouring his skin morphed, bubbling up and shaping itself. As it retracted, Gordon toppled over, feeling like he hadn't slept in months, _years_ , even. He looked down at the flesh, now holding him upwards instead of strangling him, and noticed that his body looked much more beaten than it had before. Blood covered him, leaking out from multiple places on his person, which he could only assume were gunshots. Two shots through his torso, one through his head, spurting blood out onto his glasses. He was soaked to the bone in foul scented liquid, body singed and burning, and before his eyes, all of his limbs aside from the left leg ripped away from his torso, like a doll torn apart by an unruly child. Despite all this, Gordon still couldn't feel a thing besides exhaustion.

  
  


The blob sputtered once more, shifting into two large hands, lifting him up to the blinding colours of the sky.

  
  


_"Hey, look at me."_

  
  


Gordon obeyed, face-to-face with a massive-sized _Benrey_ , features shifting in size and shape. What? Why was _he_ here? If he wasn't so _fucking_ exhausted, Gordon probably would have screamed, fought back somehow. Instead, he just stared into the massive glowing eyes and crooked, grinning teeth.

  
  


_"Sorry, sorry, does this body make you uncomfortable? You seemed so buddy-buddy last night."_

  
  


Gordon shook his head. No, Benrey doesn't make him uncomfortable, it's more... the whole situation that's making him uncomfortable.

  
  


_"Let me change it up,"_ it said, then bubbled under the flesh again, morphing into a featureless stretch of skin.

  
  


_"This better?"_ Uh, no? It really was not, but Gordon didn't bother with a response. This wasn’t Benrey, he realized. The voice didn’t match, but it was... familiar.

  
  


_"This is new for you, isn't it? Jarring, I'm sure. Just had a message, something I forgot to relay."_

  
  


The thing seemed to breathe in, shifting ever so slightly.

  
  


_"Stop doing... whatever it is you're doing with the others. Bonding. This linear path, it's no good. Limiting. Can't allow it."_

  
  


Gordon rested his head against the hands. What the hell was this thing talking about? He wasn't supposed to bond with the others? It was limiting?

  
  


_"Of course, aside from my own suggestions, it would be wise for you not to get attached. Think about it. You have to die eventually, and you'll lose all your progress. Why not experiment a little, gauge their reactions? Would be beneficial for both of us."_

  
  


The blood pouring out of his head covered his glasses. He couldn't see. Not to imply that he wanted to see.

  
  


_"To summarize -- You're getting a little too close. Know your place, or you'll regret it."_

  
  


Red, green, blue, black, white, grey.

  
  


He knew this pattern. The pieces clicked together, and just as he realized just who the voice belonged to, before he could begin to scream out his questions, his vision faded out completely.

  
  


Gordon jolted up on a cold linoleum floor and began to heave.

  
  


Whoops. Whoops, whoops. Lifting himself to his feet, careful not to slip on the papers scattered across the floor or one of his peacefully sleeping comrades, he ran from the room, holding his mouth closed.

  
  


He had just gotten to the outer corridor when he blew chunks, to keep it vague. Leaning against the wall, Gordon took deep, gasping breaths. What the hell was that? It was talking to him again. The stupid fucking voice. Couldn't it mind it's damn business for once?

  
  


_'Don't get attached,'_ it had told him. _'Don't get close, or you'll regret it.'_

  
  


Gordon could only assume what it was referencing. After dying however many times he had died, unable to talk to anyone about what he knew, he had finally found someone, and this... this _thing_... was trying to take it from him.

  
  


Pressing his head against the concrete wall, careful not to step in his own puddle o' vomit, he took the time trying to purge whatever creature that was from his mind. The feeling of it was still on his skin, gumming at his flesh. Disgusting.

  
  


"Gordon."

  
  


He lifted his head to the thick, reflective lenses of Bubby. Those glasses...

  
  


Bubby took one glance at the vomit and dramatically stepped back, silently stating how gross he thought that was. "Am I interrupting?"

  
  


Not feeling quite like talking yet, Gordon shook his head.

  
  


"Coomer caught me up to your -- _our_ predicament," he said, "I believe that explaining the situation to the science team as a whole would be most beneficial."

  
  


He shook his head again. "That's not exactly possible, Bubby. They can't -- It won't let -- No comprehension. Or something like that. I'm not exactly 'in' on the specifics of all this."

  
  


"... You're saying this from experience?"

  
  


Gordon mumbled a ' _mhm_ '.

  
  


"Well, then fuck it!" Throwing his hands in the air, Bubby grabbed Gordon by the arm and jerked him upright. "Let's fuck around and find out what works!"

  
  


"Whoa -- what if it, like, damages them? Also, stop shaking me." He thought back to his dream -- the voice telling him that he'd regret it if he kept pushing. Would there be a punishment, a penalty for trying? Gordon couldn't let these people get hurt again.

  
  


Bubby let go of him, if for nothing else, to avoid more regurgitation. "So?"

  
  


... _So_?

  
  


"So? _So_?!" Gordon raised his voice, swallowing back the acidic taste. "These -- These people are important to the both of us, how can you say ' _so_ '?!"

  
  


Bubby's voice rose to match Gordon's, but he used a far more condescending tone, replying, "Of course they're important, but what's the worst that could happen?"

  
  


Gordon remembered Tommy's body with a metal pipe buried through his chest.

  
  


He remembered the putrid scent of blood in the air, far stronger than when it was his own.

  
  


He remembered Tommy's cracking, gargled voice.

  
  


Gordon seethed, grinding his teeth. "Bad, bad things happen. They always do!"

  
  


Bubby opened his mouth, looking like every inquisitive bone in his body wanted to press on the subject, learn a little more. But, thank whatever fucking god was doing this to them, he closed it again, pressing his lips to a thin, grumpy line.

  
  


"The two of us know, Gordon. It would be rude to leave others out of the loop."

  
  


Coomer somehow snuck behind him without him noticing. How does he do that?

  
  


"Agreed!" Bubby declared. You only agree because it supports your curiosity, you little shit! And also because you're basically husbands (were they?), you're contractually obligated to agree!

  
  


And yet, they outnumbered Gordon, two to one.

  
  


"... Is this a democracy now?" He asked, dejectedly.

  
  


_"Yes!"_

  
  


\----

  
  


It felt like an AAA meeting.

  
  


If Gordon had a collar, he'd be pulling at it.

  
  


If there was an open window, he'd be trying to dive through it.

  
  


But, here he was, sitting on one side of the room, his four friends (were they friends yet?) sitting on the other side.

  
  


Coomer and Bubby sat shoulder to shoulder, ready to answer any questions (or cause more of an issue -- Bubby looked like he hadn't decided yet).

  
  


Tommy politely sat across from Gordon, hands folded in his lap. He had been the first to settle down when Gordon announced they needed to have a conversation. Always had his back, that Tommy.

  
  


Benrey sat on a barrel, staring holes into Gordon, head resting on his palms, slouching over more than any normal person would. For the love of all that was holy, Gordon hoped he'd keep his mouth shut. His ability to not lose his shit was a thin pane of glass, and Benrey was a rowdy kid with a brick in each hand.

  
  


"So. Uh," His mouth felt dry, which was better than the gross post-vomit taste it had earlier, but only by a tad bit.

  
  


"Go ahead, Gordon." Coomer gave him a thumbs up. Bubby gave him a thumbs down but switched it to a thumbs up when his husband (?) nudged him.

  
  


"None of this is real?"

  
  


He scanned his audience for issues. Last time he had tried this, Tommy couldn't respond and lost memory of recent events. Now, he simply raised a confused eyebrow.

  
  


Gordon continued, resolve in his voice. "None of this is real and I can't die. Uh, more specifically, I _can_ die, but I keep coming back. Over and over again."

  
  


Still no response. Tommy looked _really_ confused, and Benrey... Benrey raised a hand like an elementary schooler.

  
  


Gordon gestured for him to go ahead.

  
  


"I think you're full of shit."

  
  


And there was the brick, shattering the glass window.

  
  


Gordon punched a hand against his leg. "Excuse me? Excuse me? You want proof or something?"

  
  


"... Yeaaaah. Can I see some credentials?"

  
  


"If you say 'passport', I'm going to come over there and show you how dying feels like."

  
  


Benrey looked like he was _really_ considering it. "Nah. I just think you're nuts. Like, real nuts. Gonna have to move you from the peanut-free lunch table, dude."

  
  


He wasn't taking the situation seriously _at all._ Gordon knew he should wait, use calm words to explain how this made him feel, but instead? Instead, he started shouting.

  
  


"You want proof?!"

  
  


"Yeah. I thought I said that?"

  
  


"Proof! Okay!" Gordon breathed in through his teeth. "You and Bubby think I hold this _fucking_ group back, don't you two? And it's not a baseless accusation I'm making here, no, because you wanted _pro-ooof_! No, I know _this_ because you fucking _fuckheads_ let me get jumped! By soldiers! With -- with guns and shit! I lose a fucking _limb_ , every fucking time, but sometimes it changes, for whatever fucking reason? Bubby gets stuck back in some weird fucking tube thing, Coomer goes nuts and attacks us with clones and shit, and you," He pointed at Benrey, jabbing his finger forward, "You cause all of it, _every-fucking-time!_ The fuck's wrong with you!"

  
  


The shouting might have sobered Gordon up a tad bit, because after all the yelling and shouting and gesturing, he plopped back down into his seat, huffy and bouncing his leg.

  
  


Frowning, Benrey said, "Yo, wait. You're totally lying. I wouldn't do that."

  
  


"But you did!"

  
  


"Nuh-uh. That's stupid."

  
  


"Did you _honestly_ \-- stop being such a _child_!"

  
  


"Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh, stupid liar Mr. Freeman."

  
  


Gordon stood so fast that the chair behind him toppled over. "I am going to punch that metal helmet of yours so hard it sounds like an oil barrel broke the sound barrier."

  
  


"Wait!"

  
  


Tommy shouted, and both Gordon and Benrey stopped.

  
  


"I -- I don't think he's lying? Or, at least, I believe you, Mr. Freeman."

  
  


Struck out of his rage, Gordon remembered that there were far better inquiries to inspect. Namely -- Tommy could now comprehend any existential statements? Fantastic, but why? What _changed_? The last time he had attempted to speak to him about his situation was three deaths ago, the time far too broad to pin down a specific moment.

  
  


But, if Gordon had to guess, this had to do with them getting, to quote Bubby, ' _better_ '.

  
  


"I, for one, also believe Gordon. Full-heartedly." Coomer said, "And by extension, Bubby does as well. Benrey, you seem to be a bit outnumbered here!"

  
  


Hell yeah, democracy rules. Benrey crossed his arms but otherwise dropped the subject. For now.

  
  


"Uh - but Mr. Freeman?" Tommy asks.

  
  


Gordon turned to him with a raised brow.

  
  


"If it's not rude to ask, how -- how many times have you... died?"

  
  


With a pause, Gordon searched back in his memory. It was only natural that they'd be curious. He should have been prepared for this, thinking through all the times he should have never come back -- when it should have been all over. It still hurt, knowing how it felt, blood leaving body and limbs going numb. But he thought back. Accuracy was needed for the sake of the group.

  
  


"... It was... five times, I think? Various ways, coming back at various times." He said, counting back in his head. An odd feeling, numbering the amount of times you've died. Not many people do that, huh?

  
  


Tommy looked through him. "When did you come back this time?"

  
  


Of course he would have an issue with this. "I woke up here last night. And before that wonderful experience, I don't remember what happened in this round. Sorry."

  
  


Wringing his hands, cracking his knuckles, Tommy's frown deepened. Gordon took another dive into his memory and picked up on another time he had used this motor tic. He had something to say but was too nervous. Gordon leaned forwards. He could wait.

  
  


"I, uh," his knuckle-popping continued, "you don't remember anything that we've done this time... Does this mean you're not _our_ Mr. Freeman?"

  
  


That was a good question. Also, not a question Gordon particularly felt comfortable thinking about.

  
  


_"Hold the fuck up,"_ Bubby, after being otherwise quiet, declared. "It's the same Gordon, through and through. Reality aside, time outside of the present doesn't exist. It's only now. _Therefore_ , the only Gordon that exists is none other than this dumbass, lucky for us."

  
  


If it weren't for the insults, Gordon would have said his voice was almost... _fond_. He wouldn't say that out loud, though. Gordon was not keen on knuckle sandwich.

  
  


Really, though, Gordon was thankful for Bubby's insistence for once. It would save him the trouble of an identity crisis later on.

  
  


Tommy's handwringing slowed, but he blinked under pinched brows. How in the hell was he _still_ worried? This time, though, he didn't bother with a follow-up question. Of course, Gordon made a mental note to check up on him later.

  
  


"I -- I know it's a _lot_ , being told that you're not real, but I thought you deserved to know. I think it was the right choice? I hope it was, at least." The lack of profound response was making Gordon anxious as well.

  
  


Still pouting over his loss, Benrey asked, "How do you know?"

  
  


"... This is going to sound crazy, I know it will, but it's a little voice in Coomer and I's heads."

  
  


Benrey's raised his eyebrows so high that they disappeared behind the visor of his helmet, but, god bless, he did not say anything. His doubt cut through the room, almost tangible, but he did not say anything. Do you know what that was? Growth.

  
  


... No, it wasn't growth, admittedly. Gordon's confession was just so out of the left-field that Benrey didn't have the time to think of anything to respond with, so he just sort of sat there with his mouth open like a dumbass.

  
  


Gordon, of course, took that chance to continue.

  
  


"So! Ideally, the next course of action would be you guys explaining to me where the hell we are and what's happening before we continue, because I," he smiled sheepishly, "I never exactly got that memo."

  
  


\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, this one is shorter and not nearly as exciting as the previous ones, simply because i was, 1) having difficulties, 2) i felt like this was more of a 'bridge', if i may use symbolism, towards bigger character development. mostly because i was having difficulties though lmao


	8. but you'll look sweet, upon the seat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's play 'catch the persona 2 reference'

Coomer was genuinely terrifying when covered with blood. Gordon knew this fact very well. Currently, he was soaked through with the stuff, dripping down to the edges of his lab coat.

"Ugh -- Is there like a hose somewhere in Black Mesa? Coomer smells like rot again."

"I am simply disguising my scent to the rest of the area, Gordon!"

"... Of course."

"The most brilliant minds are the most often shamed, Gordon!"

The team had come to a stop next to the corpse of a scientist. He _was_ telling them something about tranquilizers, but, unfortunately, a comically large ceiling panel fell out and crushed him dead (like that one children's book that Joshua liked, Gordon thought to himself. What was it? Flat Samuel?). It seemed something would always kill these poor souls, no matter how bloodthirsty the science team was feeling.

Gordon nudged the corpse with the toe of his boot, staring down at the glossy, empty eyes staring out from under the crumbled ceiling.

_Poor thing,_ something in his mind cooed. _Coded to die._

He shoved the voice back and returned to his group.

The next corridor that they had to pass through to get to the Lambda Lab (the name was practically engraved into his memory at this point, thanks to Coomer. Gordon wondered if he did the same thing during normal road trips, making a note to ask Bubby about it at some point or another) was a long, _filthy_ hallway, full of broken-down wires and pipes. This stuff couldn't be healthy to breathe in. How likely was it that Black Mesa used asbestos in their construction, despite knowing the cons (spoiler: it's incredibly likely)?

"Look, Gordon! Puzzles!"

Obligatory.

At the end of the long hall, the spanning wires converged into a tangled mess, some connecting to outlets. The outlets, unfortunately, were next to a hermetically-sealed (why is it called a _hermetic_ seal, he wondered) sliding door. The door that they were probably supposed to go through. Rest in fucking pieces, Gordon's hope for this to all go over easy.

At least he had both arms this time 'round and didn't have to watch his team struggle with issues from the sidelines. Let's positive thinking, Gordon!

He pushed his glasses up his nose, going to work untangling the mess. A total of seven outlets were on the wall next to the door, unlabeled. Three already had a cord trailing from them. If Gordon had to guess, the one that provided power to the door had gotten ripped out, and therefore, his challenge was to figure out which one that was. Simple enough, it was just a challenge of trial and error.

But, as his fingers wrapped around the fibers, pulling and unfolding, his hands began to shake, hesitating before moving.

Gordon was scared.

Last time a puzzle seemed this simple, he ended up with blood on his hands, and for once, it wasn't his own. It _looked_ like they were safe in this hallway, the only glass being that of the small window on the door, but not all of his blind spots were covered -- in such a tight area, if something were to break, he wouldn't be able to shuffle everyone out of the way, any enemies that potentially got in would have them cornered, and who _knows_ what these cords might power? It was too big of a risk.

But he had to continue. He _had_ to. They were at a dead-end, carcasses littered behind them, peril ahead.

This wasn't new, nor would it change. Why couldn't he calm down? Fix the problem, Gordon. Just like you promised Tommy, you'll fix the problem.

"Gordon, do you need assistance? Bubby asked, leaning over his shoulder to inspect the tangle of cables. Then, shoving Gordon aside, he took it from his wobbly hands.

"Apparently so, 'cause all you're doing is fucking it up."

True. True. He was. In fact, the tangle seemed to have grown in size since he picked it up. Guess anxiety screws with fine-motor skills, huh?

Within seconds, Bubby had unraveled the pile, proudly lifting his arms to display his work. "See? Count on Dr. Bubby, you hear!"

"Okay, you've gotten your moment." Gordon snatched the newly-disentangled cables away from the doctor, flipping them around in his hands, inspecting them for any sort of difference. There were none (or, at least none that he could see).

But there were four plugs and four outlets still empty. The answer was right in front of him. Sometimes, just maybe, things can be easy without hidden meaning.

He crouched down, plugging in the cords one-by-one.

Sure enough, after pulling on the handle of the metal door, it slid open, easy as pie.

Maybe some things really could be simple.

_Bang!_

An echoing gunshot whizzed past Gordon's head, loud enough that it had to be a double-barrel shotgun, and he swallowed his words just as quickly as he vomited them.

He was still turned away from the group, but the imagery was already leaking into his brain. Tommy, head blown open like a melon, brain fragments littering the walls, blood spurting out to the other end of the hall, jaw barely holding to his neck. He wouldn't have known what was coming. He wouldn't have had time to blame him like Gordon knew he deserved -- hell, it was _Tommy_ , he would probably be _forgiving_ , if anything, and that made Gordon hate himself for it more.

Another bullet flew past him, blast knocking him out of his trance. He whirled around, not caring what he was or wasn't supposed to see. A scream tore out of his throat, calling, _"Tommy!!"_

There was blood. Oh, there was so much blood.

But, by some miracle, none of it belonged to his friends (friends?).

Coomer stood, looming over the drying viscera of two soldiers, cherry red staining his fists. Bubby shot another round into the closest one. Benrey had his hands in his pockets, looking up at him with an inquisitive glance. Tommy was wholly intact, blood smearing his face belonging to someone who didn't matter now.

"Mr. Freeman? What's wrong?" The tallest doctor stepped forward, tilting his head to the side, hands going to Gordon's shaking shoulders.

Gordon ground his teeth together and fought the urge to grab his friend and forcibly scrub the blood from his skin, if for nothing else to wipe the memory from his brain.

"It's gonna be fine, Tommy."

"Of course it'll be fine? Are you alright?"

Gordon shook his hands away. "I should be asking you that, buddy. Are _you_ alright? No injuries, anything?"

"I'm pretty visibly fine, Mr. Freeman," Tommy frowned, then added, "I can handle myself, too!"

Yeah. Yeah, of course he could.

With shaky legs, Gordon walked through the door, science team in tow. They had made it out alive, and that's all that mattered.

They would continue to make it out alive.

The next hallway branched off into several rooms, filled with old monitors, glass vials filled with various coloured liquids, and broken-down freezers letting abandoned test samples rot. Years of research, all decimated in seconds. But did it matter, considering the discoveries weren't real?

With a wave of the hand, Gordon took a seat on one of the swivel stools, face resting in his palms, calling to the group, "Okay, quick break time."

If the discoveries here didn't matter, then that meant that Gordon's research, his Ph.D., didn't matter. All that time, all the grueling study sessions, depriving himself of contact and sustenance, all for the sake of a better future, none of it mattered, did it?

Of course, that meant that none of those memories had happened by extension.

Gordon was simply taught to believe them. A ruse.

He heard the shuffle of a chair being pulled in front of him, someone sitting heavily, and he lifted his head from his palms, smearing his hands as he did.

"Yo."

Benrey sat like an asshole. Legs kicked out to either side, arm propped up on the table, other arm thrown over the back of the chair, making clicking noises as he tapped away on the plastic backing.

For some reason, the tapping made his heart rate slow. Gordon raised a brow, a silent signal for him to continue.

"So," Benrey said, leaning forward.

"... So?" Gordon replied.

"Uh. You have a son, yeah? Juicebox or something?"

"... _Joshua_?"

"Sure, sure. Juicebox. Can you, uh," Benrey frowned, trailing off. Gordon waited.

"Tell me about him?" Benrey asked. Odd, he never seemed the type to care about something like that. He didn't _seem_ to be up to anything, but Gordon was still a little on edge, all things considered.

Pursing his lips, Gordon said, matter-of-factly, "He's definitely a child."

"... Noooo shit. No, tell me some epic baby stories, bro."

_Epic baby stories?_ What would that entail? He was a child, for Pete's sake. But, Gordon thought back. This was a great chance to teach Benrey a lesson. The lesson, of course, was to never ask a father about his child unless you had the time to listen.

"Well. He's four, currently, a real menace for his age," he stated, "It's not intentional, it's just that Josh has _a lot_ of energy. Had to get him one of those backpack leashes, 'cause he kept sprinting off in the store and stealing grapes. The backpack is rabbit themed. He's got a thing about rabbits. Josh probably knows more about rabbits than I do, actually," Gordon chuckled.

When he pushed up his glasses and glanced up, he saw Benrey, position relaxed, smiling with pressed lips. "Where'd the rabbit thing start?" He asked.

Gordon sat up and coughed out a laugh. "When he was three. I took him on a walk through a state park, and --" He had to stop to wheeze out a cackle, "-- He calls out, like, _"hey daddy!”_ all excited, y' know? And, of course, I'm looking around, 'cause I can't figure out where he went, but out Josh comes, from the inside of a fallen tree, get this, _with a full fucking rabbit_ clutched in his little fists, animal flipping its shit like no other."

Wheezing in his seat, Gordon knew the story wasn't that funny, that the only reason he found it so great was because it was _his_ son, but, sure enough, Benrey was audibly laughing along. Strange. He couldn't remember the last time he heard Benrey laugh.

"Shit, that's -- that's some Disney shit. You let him keep it, right?"

" _No!_ My landlord would kill me! And I don't know the signs of rabies in rabbits!"

Benrey sighed dramatically. "He didn't even let him keep the rabbit... Lame."

Chuckles dying down, Gordon fixed his sitting position to look at Benrey better.

The guard's hat tilted slightly, the shadow usually cast by the brim shifting, showing his eyes in a better light. How old was he, Gordon wondered? Those deep bags under his eyes and frown lines stretching up to his nose suggested he was older, maybe even middle-aged, but for some reason, Gordon hoped he was around his own age. That was new.

"Hey, Gordon," Benrey said, and Gordon wondered when he started using his first name. "Who's the little dude's other, uh, parent?"

... Gordon opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came to mind.

Dear fucking lord.

He tried searching his brain for a name, he really tried, but none were coming up. Did he not remember the other person involved in the conception of his child? Joshua wasn't adopted, he knew _that_ , but no matter how hard he thought back, Gordon couldn't think of a name for the other person. As far as he knew, he never _had_ been in a relationship. Was he an amnesiac or something?

"Uh. Too personal?" Benrey asked, and somehow, he sounded _worried_.

Gordon shook himself back to the present, realizing how long he must have been staring off over the guard's shoulder. "Nah, it's just..."

What? What was he planning on saying? _'I don't know the other parent of my child'?_ That raises way more questions!

"I, uh," He stumbled over his words, "I don't really wanna talk about it?"

Nice. Nice save. Now he was going to think something bad happened. No, it was just Gordon being stupid and apparently concussed. As per usual.

Benrey raised his brows, a look of suspicion as clear as day. "Don't wanna talk about it."

"Ideally, no."

He looked like he wanted to continue, like every dastardly bone in his body wanted to press on the subject, but instead, he just crossed his arms and said, "... Okay."

What a shock.

"Okay? For real?" Gordon asked.

"Uh, yes." He still had that curious look. Liar.

He just sat there. Obviously, he wanted the conversation to continue, judging by the fact that he hadn't fucked off to who knows where yet.

"Uh. Bro," Benrey said. There it was. "Tommy told me to, y' know, _apologize_. Said I was," He raised his hands in air quotes, _"'insensitive towards you earlier, and if I wanted to be close to someone, I needed to use my words'._ "

Gordon was still reeling from the fact that he couldn't remember the name of Joshua's other parent, and now _Benrey_ was saying _sorry_? It was like two consecutive punches!

Was this new growth towards true emotional maturity? Would Benrey finally become a tolerable, maybe even a _nice_ person?

"Benrey, are you apologizing?" Gordon asked.

"Ghhhff. _No_. Why would I do that?"

Honestly, Gordon didn't know what he expected. That kind of change just doesn't happen. The fun was over, it was time to depart. He rolled his eyes and stood from his chair, waving the group back together. "Let's head on out, guys. Let's get goin'."

Hopping off of desks and chairs, the scientists formed their usual group behind Gordon. A little group of ducklings that were all older than him. Adorable. He should get them one of those ropes that they make kindergartners hold on to during field trips. Coomer wouldn't have any issue with holding on to a rope, therefore his plan was practically flawless.

While Gordon was doing his headcount of the team, he noticed that, although still present, Benrey was hanging further away than usual. It wasn't exactly _odd_ for him to keep his distance, but this time, his arms were crossed, and he was staring rather intensely, almost like he was waiting for something. Gordon felt uneasy.

Back out into the hallway, linoleum floor clacking under three pairs of dress shoes, one pair of military-grade work boots, and one pair of metal sabatons.

"I'm telling you, Coomer, Aperture _has_ to be the lesser of the two companies," Gordon said, emphasizing his point with gesticulation.

"You'd be incorrect to assume that, Gordon!"

"I was in this place when it fucking exploded, and I'm still willing to admit it is better than whatever Mr. Cave Johnson had going on there."

"At least they didn't bring about the end of civilization as we know it, Gordon."

"You know what, you've got me there."

Being schooled by Coomer was an awfully humbling experience. Gordon would have recommended it to a friend if he had any friends other than these weirdos.

_Bonk._

"Gordon! Pole!"

Sure enough, there was a pole. A crumbled, destroyed pole, but sure enough, a pole. And he had run directly into it, like a dumbass.

Grumbling and holding his head, Gordon looked up over his glasses, grinding his teeth together. Blocking their path was a few metric tons of concrete ripped from the surrounding walls.

"Ffffucking brilliant." He gritted out, crouching down to look for another path.

A hand grabbed Gordon's shoulder, startling him from his task.

Benrey, staring down at him in that inquisitive-yet-unsettling way, grinned just a tad bit.

"Clumsy boy."

Gordon frowned, turning away from the mockery -- huh?

The mess blocking their path was gone, hallway cleared. It was there a second ago, and there's no way anyone could have moved that... There was no way anyone could have moved that _physically_.

He stood, knees cracking. "Benrey."

"Huh? What?"

"Did you do that? Did you remove the blockade?"

He grinned and waved his hands. "I'm just fucking around, bro."

That was a yes. That absolutely was a yes.

"... How?" Gordon didn't expect a response, but it was worth a shot.

"I dunno. I just do that stuff, I don't want it to be there, so it isn't." Vague, but still an answer. This was good. This was progress.

So, Benrey could just vanish-ify things. Cool, cool. Gordon knew better than to question it.

Instead, he turned back to their goal, turning his head to hide his smile.

"Thank you, Benrey. Really, this time."

Gordon couldn't see Benrey at that moment, but someone else could.

They could see the shock and bashfulness overtake Benrey’s features, looking down and fidgeting with his hands.

They rolled their eyes and turned off the monitor.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> benrey doesn't really seem the type to follow the rules of a game. that would get real annoying, wouldn't it?
> 
> thanks for reading folks! here's hoping these six stay calm for a bit longer


	9. a bicycle built for two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what's in a name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally letting this story earn an 'original character' tag

"Dad?"

All the lights were off in the halls.

Gordon was in the dormitories of Black Mesa.

Gordon did not live in the dormitories of Black Mesa.

He lived in his shitty little apartment, with his four-year-old son.

Where was his son?

_"Dad,"_ someone calls.

Then Gordon's running, sprinting off the toes of his boots, lab coat trailing behind.

When did he change into his lab coat?

It didn't matter.

Joshua was somewhere in there, and Gordon could hear him.

"Daddy!"

A scream, this time.

The halls were outlined in darkness, all doors locked.

He turned and took off in the direction the voice came from.

No exits. No light.

Where was his son?

Then, a door ahead of him opened. Light was shining from the inside. Gordon halted at the barrier, skidding to a stop.

The room was unfurnished other than an unfolding chair set in the center of the tile flooring, no windows, paintings, or otherwise.

It almost reminded him of his apartment.

A migraine rushed through the front of his skull, and for a moment, Gordon furrowed his brow and squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened his eyes, the seat was occupied.

A child.

Not his, no, older. A middle-school-aged girl, greasy brown hair pulled back and a large green coat.

_"Hiya, Gordie."_

He suppressed a sigh. Not this again.

The kid grinned, kicking their legs in the chair.

_"What? Is this no good? Picky, picky."_

The child morphed, now taking the form of a middle-aged woman donning a white turtleneck. Tacky.

_"Better?"_ She inquired, canines still bared in a tight smile.

Gordon ran a hand through his hair. It was a dream. His son wasn't here. All that was here was... This _thing_.

Speaking of which. With a careful tone, he asked, "... What _are_ you?"

She laughed, throwing her head back. It looked nothing but fake.

_"I'm your saviour, Gordon."_

"I mean, like, generally. I hear Benrey always saying shit about him not being human, so I'm _assuming_..."

The voice sneered. _"Ugh, noooo. Not like him. Nice guess, though."_

"You're not going to tell me. Of fucking course you won't."

_"Negative, Houston. Don't think your little pea brain could comprehend it. Don't wanna risk losing all my progress, either."_

Though Gordon scowled, he knew he had to rework his strategy. This was the one person (?) that had the information he needed.

What was the best way to get information out of someone?

Start small? He could do that.

"... Okay. What's your name?" Testing the waters, he couldn't help but feel like his situation was similar to that of an ouija board, just a bit more... tangible.

She leaned forward, posture slouched far enough to harm the average person.

_"What do you wanna call me? Giving you the creative freedom."_

Okay. That didn't work, and now the ball was back in his park. Names. Names.

He couldn't think of any name other than Sunkist. Damn it all!

The voice leaned forward on her palm, grin turning smug.

Gordon fumbled for words. "... Sprite?"

_"Oh boy."_

"Mello Yello, Pepsi, Coke, Fanta."

_"Jesus Christ, can I revoke your creative permissions?"_

"Mountain Dew?"

_"..."_

"I dunno man, I really, genuinely think Mountain Dew is the one."

_"... I dig it. Needs abbreviated."_

'Mount' sounded stupid, 'Dew' was far too normal for his tastes, and 'Mountain' as a whole was one syllable too many. He pursed his lips. "Uh, just MD then? Like you're some kind of licensed medical professional?"

_"I could be. Y' don't know me."_

That was true, but something about her voice sounded far too young for a degree. It seemed to crack when the girl raised her voice, almost demeaning her intimidation atmosphere. Almost.

MD continued, leaning back in her chair. _"Names. Why do we need them? Someone needs a name when they don't know who they are. Do you remember when you were named, Gordie?"_

Uh, _no_? What kind of a question was that?

_"Whoopsie-daisy. Got a bit off-topic, didn't we."_ Crossing her arms, MD continued, _"So. Your little friends."_

"We're not friends."

The grin turned back to a sneer.

_"And yet, you refuse to heed my command due to them."_ MD hissed through her teeth.

Okay, maybe they were friends.

_"You do not the imperative nature of your situation. When you choose to dilly-dally around, you skew my results, limit my data, and I, for one, know what the result of that will be --"_

Gordon piped up through MD's shouting.

"I dunno, maybe you should explain it to me!"

Her glare caught his eye. Uh-oh.

Standing sharply and kicking the chair into a corner, she stepped over to Gordon, backing him into a corner. MD's hands went for his collar, dragging him up against the wall, knuckles digging into his throat. Was she originally this fucking tall?

MD bared her teeth. _"Don't interrupt me, boy."_

Alright.

_"If you are so ffffucking PRESSED to get information, I will throw you a bone."_ She drug him higher against the wallpaper, lab coat crumpling beneath his back.

_"Realism is both of our goals, but you are the deviant. For your oh-so-dear 'friends' to become real, you must expand your dialogue. More data, better outcomes. Come on, science boy, this is simple."_

Gordon wheezed against her grip. Why was it always him getting choked out, literally?

_"Suppose this is my fault, though, dedicating so much of my time to AI."_

_AI?_ They were AI? Like, on a computer? He let out another gasp, a silent question.

_"Whoopsie-daisy. Am I saying too much?"_ MD dropped Gordon like a sack of potatoes to the floor, glasses tumbling off to god knows where. He stared up at her, waiting. In this place, MD made the rules. She was clear about that.

Crouching down to his eye level, she handed Gordon back his glasses, smiling, all teeth yet again.

_"Mr. Freeman, you have a role to play. Don't make me regret saving you."_

Spots of colour began to overtake his vision, the corners filling in towards the center.

Red, green, blue, black, white, grey.

_"Bye-bye, Gordie. Thanks for the name."_

When Gordon woke up this time, he was face down, drooling a puddle onto the desk he was rested on, back in the clunky HEV suit. _'AI'_ kept resonating within his brain. The knuckles on his gloves were pressing an uncomfortable mark into his face.

Really, when was the last time he had a normal dream? Did they all have to be haunted by some creep, using the voice of his own son against him?

_Of course,_ a voice in his mind said.

He shoved it down and inspected his surroundings.

The rest of the team was still asleep, Bubby and Coomer leaning on one another, Tommy slouched in a swivel chair, Benrey on a desk with his head down. Guess Gordon was the early bird this time.

Last night, after continuing a ways forward, Tommy had once again complained of exhaustion, leading Gordon to find the nearest room for them to hunker down for the night. A computer room filled with plenty of desks and chairs. Their late-night conversation had fallen a bit short, slightly more quiet than typical, due to the fact that both Coomer and Bubby had fallen asleep the second they sat down in the corner, leaving only Tommy, Benrey, and Gordon awake.

Tommy had spoken about how the whole 'not real' thing weirded him out a tad, but he ultimately saw it as nothing more than an obstacle to get past. "At least I have my dog and my friends!" Tommy had exclaimed, lowering his voice only when Coomer opened an eye in a slight glare. Gordon almost envied his bright outlook, but with his heart warmed by the sudden declaration of friendship, he couldn't bring himself to harbour any negative emotion.

Benrey had been mostly quiet during the night, sitting on a desk while the other two were on the floor, only adding a handful of wry comments to the conversation. Despite this, he seemed to have been staring intently the whole time Gordon was awake, only looking away when Gordon turned to stare back. He had to be planning something, and Gordon was almost positively sure he knew what.

They were almost to the area where, in a normal route, he would get jumped, losing a limb in the process.

Now, Benrey _had_ sworn up and down that he would _never_ do such a thing, but after feeling plenty of pain due to the man, Gordon was inclined to disagree. After all, what would prompt him to change so suddenly?

Speaking of which, Gordon was about 64% sure those eyes were staring yet again.

"Hey," he said, and sure enough, Benrey jolted a little bit from his spot on the other desk.

"Are you planning on like... letting me get attacked by soldiers again? Just wanted to, you know, check in on that." Gordon leaned forward, and the guard slightly raised his head, avoiding eye contact, a dog caught doing something bad.

He frowned. "I'm supposed to."

"Yeah, I know. Are you going to?"

"..."

Not this shit again. "Benrey?"

"... You'd hate me, wouldn't you?"

Uh, implying he didn't already? Okay, okay, no, he didn't hate Benrey, but it was a little presumptuous to say that he _liked_ him.

He only liked him a little bit.

When Gordon didn't respond, Benrey let out a dramatic sigh.

"Like, dude, I don't really _wanna_. So... I guess not." He slouched over and tapped on the desk, waiting for Gordon to respond.

"You're not going to let them cut any of my limbs off this time?" Gordon asked, pushing for confirmation.

"Mhh. No."

While the declaration of _'no, I'm not going to let you get your limbs cut off'_ was a comfort, Gordon guessed that, considering the script had that area as a trigger, something had to happen, and it probably wasn't going to be a good time for him in particular. And yet, Benrey's reassurance calmed him ever so slightly. Maybe he wasn't entirely out for Gordon's blood.

The rest of the science team had begun to stir from their slumber -- Tommy rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, hair mussed, Coomer and Bubby standing and straightening their coats. All of his... friends. Once again, that odd feeling bloomed in Gordon's lungs, something akin to cotton wrapped around his heart. Fluffy. He wasn't used to it.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: Goooordie_

A voice echoed through his head.

_> > MD: That's an awfully fond look you're wearing. Remember my words, yeah?_

He turned his head away, wiping the smile from his mouth. Of course MD was watching. She didn't seem the type to trust in her threats to simply follow through. The... telepathic messaging was new, though. Not nearly as odd as the rest of his situation.

Which reminded him. He didn't really process the whole 'AI' comment that MD had mentioned, had he? It was so easy to forget things nowadays, considering all the information being thrown at him. Did this confirm that they were machines? It would explain the default script that they all had. If so, then what purpose were they made to serve? Were they all just toys?

Oh, god.

Benrey might have been right about something for once.

It was a video game.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: :-)_

\----

The hallways were silent, other than the occasional headcrab leaping out from the corners, going for the face a few times, then waddling away when it realized it was outnumbered. Bubby kept commenting on the strange anatomy of the creatures, detailing his findings from his last post-mortem examination.

"I'd never wanted a pet before these little turkeys. Coomer, what are your thoughts?" Bubby turned to his fellow doctor.

Coomer smiled. "If you can manage to wrangle one, dear, I'm sure Petco has big enough collars."

Bubby hollered and thrust a victorious fist into the air.

Chuckling, Gordon asked, "And if this all goes over well, what're you gonna name it?"

"Well, it'll be brilliant no matter what I name it, Gordon, but I'm thinking of something that starts with 'L'."

_L_?

Bubby put a hand to his chin. "Lorazepam, Lymphoma, Lamination... Laaaamaa..." He paused, a realization clear on his face.

"Long Island Iced Tea." He declared.

Seems like they both had beverage brain rot when it came to names.

Other than Bubby's inspiring explanations, their walk had been quiet, giving Gordon a bit more time to let the whole AI thing sink in.

He had considered telling Coomer right off the bat, get everything out in the open, but he wasn't quite one-hundred-percent on his judgment just yet, and adding more confusion to their predicament seemed like a bad, bad idea.

Along with that, he now knew that MD was watching every last one of his moves, although she never made an effort to actually stop him. Except for, of course, that one time he interrupted her. MD's priorities were set.

"Gordon, look out!"

A bullet whizzed over his head, brushing his hair. So much for their calming stroll.

Pulling a pistol from his side, Gordon took aim at the nearest soldier, unloading one bullet into the man's right shoulder, another in the throat. He _was_ aiming for the head, but, admittedly, he had lost the honor of being a good shot some time while his hand was missing.

Taking in his surroundings, Gordon estimated that at least ten soldiers were in the room with them, the number going down by the seconds. Yes, they were outnumbered, but he was pretty sure Coomer counted for at least five men with his strength alone, and that didn't even touch on Bubby's seemingly inherent ability to combust anything in his radius. They had this covered.

One of them got a bit too close to Tommy for comfort and Gordon quickly shot the rest of his clip into the side of the stranger.

_Smack!_

Gordon took a butt of a rifle to the temple. He deserved that for getting cocky.

His gun was empty, and he wasn't going to have enough time to reload. There was no choice -- he would either fight tooth and claw or die trying.

Gordon reached his arm out, eyes squeezed shut from the hit, blindly grabbing.

His hand found nothing but air. Opening his eyes, vision still blurry, Gordon noticed that there was, in fact, nothing there. Nor were there any other guards left, or their corpses.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: STOP_

_> > MD: TELL YOUR STUPID FRIEND TO STOP DOING THAT_

"What...?" Gordon muttered aloud.

_> > MD: TELL HIM TO STOP FUCKING WITH THE CODE_

Who? What code? Who was fucking with a code?

He whirled around again. Which buddy was MD talking about? Coomer, though covered in blood, wasn't a suspect, same for Bubby. Tommy didn't seem to have any personal knowledge of MD.

Oh! _Of course!_

Benrey stood on the other side of the room, leaning against a grey metal column, a self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. This had to do with his vanish-y thingy, didn't it?

Honestly, Gordon couldn't comprehend it. The mere idea of just _removing_ things went against all his education. And yet.

He pointed a finger at Benrey and stepped forwards.

"Did you do this, Benrey?"

"Huh?" The guard stood with his hands in his pockets, not even bothering to hide his grin.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: yes, it was that bitch. get his ass_

Gordon smiled wide right back at Benrey. "Thanks, bro."

_> > MD: GHHHHHFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF_

It took a moment for the praise to register, the realization that this was positive feedback, but once it did, Benrey smiled, and man, did he smile _wide_. It was almost creepy, the bared gums, crooked teeth, but, somehow, Gordon caught himself almost finding it... endearing? He had removed the soldiers once they had harmed Gordon. This just solidified the fact that he didn't want him dead, which was, uh, actually pretty nice of him?

Another childish, defeated wheeze came from his mind. MD must have given up. What a whiny kid. A constant, looming force that had no issue torturing him to no end, reduced to _this_ by a single annoying security guard.

Gordon walked over to Benrey, still smiling like the cat who got the cream, and clapped his hand over his shoulder. He rested against the metal column next to him, shoulders bumping. "You're gonna have to explain that trick to me sometime, _buddy_."

"Aww, bro. Saved your ass and you're still calling me buddy?"

"I thought that's what you wanted me to call you, though? Y' know, 'bro'?"

Benrey tsk’ed through his smirk. "Well, if I'm, uh, gonna be saving your ass all the time, like I just did, for instance, I totally deserve an upgrade from just a 'bro'."

Didn't he have some weird attachment to that word already? He near constantly, after all. Despite this, Gordon shrugged. "Alright, what do you want me to call you?"

Benrey opened his mouth.

Then he closed it.

He opened it again. Why does one need a name?

From between the guard's teeth, a few pink orbs materialized and floated into the air, gently bumping against the wall behind them.

Benrey clamped his mouth shut and muttered, "N'v'rmind. Bro is... good."

Looking up at the soft pink sweet voice floating above them, Gordon reached out a careful hand, slowly cupping one in his palms.

"Whuh..." Benrey mumbled, more pink tumbling out. "Where'd you learn that?"

A chuckle.

"I learned it from a good friend."

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: You’ve got to be kidding me._

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some fun facts:  
> \- originally, MD was supposed to be named AM, in reference to 'I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream', because, you know, robot-related media. and also because i always thought AM was a stupid fucking name  
> \- naming the antagonist Mountain Dew was way more funny to me though  
> \- at the chapter start, MD uses the model for the unused child workers and judith mossman. neither are MD's actual appearance.  
> \- the quote about names is from coraline!!


	10. we will go tandem as man and wife, daisy, daisy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't break your toys, kids!

_> > MD: Hey, listen!_

_> > MD: ... Gordon Freeman._

_> > MD: Mister Doctor Gordon Freeman._

_> > MD: Are you ignoring me? Mr. Freeman, Gordie, c'mon. Listen._

Was there a mute button or something somewhere?

An otherwise-normal venture between rooms was continuously getting interrupted by a very persistent unknown entity, constantly butting into Gordon's conscience every time he wasn't speaking to someone.

God, he wished this new feature had never been implemented. _Making Gordon Freeman's life hell, one step at a time!_ That should have been MD's new catchphrase.

Gordon thumbs-up'ed to the science team, then rounded the corner, away from the prying eyes of his group.

"For fuck's sake, what's wrong with you?" He hissed, peering around the wall.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: You're ignoring me. Made this nifty new channel specifically to talk to you, and you ignore me. Do you have any idea how rude that is?_

Gordon sighed. "No. I have no clue, and, ideally, I'd like it to stay that way."

_> > MD: Who taught you to be this rude? Listen._

_"What is it!?"_ His shout came out louder than he expected, leading him to quickly clasp his hands over his mouth and peek over the corner. No one was coming, so he must have been narrowly alright.

MD tsk' ed.

_> > MD: Noisy. Continuing on._

_> > MD: I wasn't kidding when I told you to put a leash on your guard dog over there._

Huh? What dog? "Sunkist isn't here right now, though?"

_> > MD: Do you actually have an MIT education? It's a metaphor. For the guard, you know, comparing him to a guard dog. It's funny._

Ah. It really wasn't that funny, but at least he knew what the issue was.

_> > MD: Dunno where he learned to do that. Doesn't matter. He just needs to stop deleting bits of code. Easy as pie._

Why? Was a single man all it took to screw up all the little gears in her little game? Piss off. Either MD was just being dramatic, or Benrey actually _was_ causing an issue.

If it were, in fact, the latter, then Gordon would have to think of a better reward for Benrey than just some plain ol' praise. Anybody could do that, and Gordon didn't want to be just anybody. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to teach Benrey that _'causing issues' = 'reward'_ , but this was a special case.

The second worst person he had ever met was fucking up the first worst person he had ever met. What strange times he lived in.

_> > MD: Gordie, I am this close to adding air horn sound effects specifically to play in your cranium if you do not tell Benny-Guard-Man to cut the shit. _

_> > MD: You can't see my fingers, I'm aware, but trust me when I say they're close._

Gordon laughed ever so slightly. "Air horns? Like, are you gonna pull an MLG gamer moment thing?"

_> > MD: No. No more gamer moments until you stop being stupid._

He wasn't stupid! He had a theoretical theoretical physics degree!

How long had he been back here? He couldn't take that much longer before someone got suspicious, and Gordon wasn't sure how he'd explain him talking to himself.

"How do you suggest I get him to knock it off? Benrey doesn't care enough to listen to me, like, _ever_."

MD grumbled.

_> > MD: The guard caring is what caused this issue._

"Sounds like bullshit --" Something moved out of the corner of his vision.

Grab the gun, switch off the safety, shoot first, think second, -- "Hello, Gordon!"

Gordon dropped his gun in response. " _Fuck_ , Coomer, don't do that! Do you realize I could have _shot_ you?"

"Live and let learn, my boy!" Coomer smiled, staring through him with knowing eyes. "... Are you speaking with our mutual friend?"

"You know about that?" Gordon asked, then added, "And I don't know about you, but I am _not_ friends with that freak."

_!psay Gordon Freeman, Harold P. Coomer_

_> > MD: Bitch_

"Hello, Bitch!"

_> > MD: Hello, Dr. Coomer. Nice to see you well._

What a tone difference. They seemed pretty buddy-buddy, all things considered.

"Gordon, the group is going to move on without you if you don't wrap up your conversation soon. We wouldn't want that!"

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm going."

_> > MD: Consider my words, Dr. Gordie. I am the most reputable source in your entire little world, after all._

_It doesn't matter how reliable your information is if it isn't the information needed,_ Gordon thought.

\----

Video games.

Who didn't love them? Unless you were some old coot who couldn't tell a DVD from a CD, you probably liked video games to some extent.

Gordon liked video games as much as the next guy, but he wasn't sure how he was getting along with the idea of _being_ in one. It explained the whole 'not dying' thing -- he was just... respawning. The grey must have been the levels loading in. MD was a player, or maybe a developer. It all matched up too well for it to be a coincidence.

But how do you deal with such a situation? Knowing that you're stuck on a set path, able to be deleted as quickly as the player gets bored? He and his friends, the people he'd come to care for, were nothing more than toys.

_This whole time, you had been comparing yourself to a pathetic child_ , a voice in his head said. _What would you think if I told you that you weren't the child, but rather the doll?_

Gordon Freeman. People did like to name their toys something memorable, didn't they?

It was a game of choice, and MD was ushering him to make new decisions. Why? Was she just curious? She knew that they suffered, bled, and died just like any normal person. Was the payoff so good that it was worth all the pain she caused? Or maybe, just maybe, she didn't even care.

The thought of a god that didn't care wasn't so surprising.

Footsteps next to him stopped.

"Gordon, you seem awfully out of it. Care to sit?" Hello, Dr. Coomer.

Gordon frowned. It was a bad time for a fatherly discussion -- they had places to get to, things to kill. "I'm good."

The doctor grabbed his shoulder and directed him to a chair. Okay, guess he didn't get a choice. Gordon took a seat, chin resting on his hand, while Coomer sat on the desk, hands folded politely. The room was dark, the power had gone out a long time ago, but there was just enough light from the surrounding areas to drown almost any fear of lingering creatures. Emphasis on 'almost' -- Gordon was still watching his back.

Bubby peeked around the corner, glasses reflecting light in the darkness like a car that left its headlights on. "Dr. Coomer, what are you two wasting time for?"

"Just a moment, dear, Gordon had a question about chairs. Perfect time to recite my knowledge to him, no?" Bubby raised a brow but otherwise returned to the group. Now, it was just Gordon and Coomer, waiting for one of them to start talking.

"So," Coomer started, "What is on your mind, Gordon?"

Uh. Lots of things, always. A never-ending list of things and ideas. Constantly bouncing around in his cranium. Where was he supposed to start?

"Well. I think we're in a video game." That was a pretty shit start.

Coomer smiled with a quirked brow. Confusion. Yeah, it was odd to say something like that out loud, but Coomer asked first.

"Gordon, my boy."

"Yeah?"

"You didn't already know that?"

What the fuck! _"No_? No, I did not, _did you?"_ Coomer better not have been pulling his leg.

The old man laughed, a loud, startling cackle. It wasn't funny! Why did everyone make such shitty jokes! Wheezing, Coomer leaned forward, wiping his eyes. "Apologies! You should have seen your face, Gordon! Shocked to hell and back!"

" 'S _not_ funny." He didn't want to admit he was pouting, but he was totally pouting. So much for his serious situation. Now he was just a clown. Honk, honk.

Coomer sighed, calming down, then smiled. "Yes, I've known that for quite a while now. Did the nice voice not tell you?"

"Nice? Absolutely not."

"It seems we've got two different sets of information, then!"

Indeed they did. How long would it take to unravel? They didn't have time for a proper discussion -- their team was on the other side of the wall, waiting for them, and god knows how long their patience would last. What if he couldn't say the things that he needed to say?

"Dr. Coomer," Gordon said, breathing in and beginning to use his hands as punctuation, "We're coming up to a place in the game, a place where we're gonna get separated, and I just wanna ask, I don't want to, I don't --"

"We're not going to leave you, my boy. We will find the time you need." The doctor stood, straightening his coat, then held his hand out to Gordon. "Now, I believe our group is getting a little restless, no?"

Gordon looked up to him, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Coomer's face was shadowed in the shade of the room, soft light from the hall outlining the hand reaching out to help him.

He took the hand and rose to his feet.

\----

So, what do you do when you find out you're not real, when you learn someone else is in control?

It is so easy to lash out, let hatred and despair take control of your mind.

And, if he were to be honest, Gordon had wanted to do that. More than anything. It would have been so much easier.

But, he was a man of science. A struggling, bloodied, and battered man of science, but a man of science, nonetheless.

Push your limits, Gordon. No authority, no god, no player could keep his science team down.

And so, when they came to the same doorway he dreaded so dearly, metallic texture reflecting in the overhead fluorescent lighting, he didn't wait for the next line of the script to play.

"Alright, guys, this is the place."

Tommy wrung his hands beside him. "Mr. Freeman, isn't this a bit too dangerous?"

A scoff. "Nahhhh. 'S fine." Benrey gestured for them to continue, calm and collected as ever.

"How can you say that for sure?" Tommy frowned. "We could always find another way, this can't -- it can't be the _only_ way forward!"

Gordon had spent his last few lives trying to find another way. There was none. This was a scripted event, something that had to happen so long as the game was working correctly. Unless, of course, he bent the rules a little more. Gordon put a hand of Tommy's shoulder, hoping to calm his friend. When the taller man looked down, he smiled. It was the least he could do for someone like him. "It's the only way. It'll be fine, Tommy."

"Let's get a move on, then!" Bubby summarized it nicely, as always.

One foot in front of the other, into the doorway. Gordon clutched his gun between shaky hands.

Gordon waited for the lights to go out, for something to happen. His team joined him in the room, Coomer with his fists already raised, Tommy and Bubby with their guns ready, Benrey with no weapon out, but he was standing close to Gordon, staring out into the next doorway, waiting, watching.

It was silent. The lights stayed on. It couldn't be this easy, MD would never let it be this easy.

Sure enough, footsteps could be heard down the next hallway, the same sound as the last two times he went through this. The lights were still on, but they flickered, seemingly fighting against something.

As the two soldiers rounded the corner, they raised their guns, ready to pin down the team.

In two seconds, around four bullets were shot. Two were from the science team, one from Gordon himself.

In three seconds, one of the soldiers had shoved Gordon against a wall, knocking the breath out of his chest.

In four seconds, the lights went out.

Then, silence.

"Guys?" Gordon called.

"We aren't going anywhere, Gordon!" Coomer called.

The lights flickered, then came back on. A quiet buzzing could be heard, a noise stuck in a process. The guards were gone, along with their corpses. Who else could have done that?

Benrey grinned.

_!psay here_

_> > MD: Anything past this point was caused by your own doing, not mine._

The guard's face switched, revolving between fear, pride, and _pure, unadulterated hate._ The most horrifying part, though, was his eyes, directed at Gordon and Gordon alone.

Benrey lurched forward, hands balled. For a moment, his face settled on fear. Gordon wasn't sure he had ever seen Benrey look so scared, even after five lifetimes. "Whuh -- What's happening to me?"

_> > MD: I'm giving you a choice in your punishment. You either kill him and reset your mistake, or you delete yourself and let them continue without you, Barney._

Hands reaching for his gun, Benrey moved in jagged, robotic ways. When Gordon turned to the science team, a silent plea for help, he found them frozen in place, unmoving aside from their eyes.

Back against the wall, Gordon let the decision sink in. One of them had to die, but MD had used a different word for Benrey. _'Delete'_. She asked him to _dispose_ of himself. With that realization, the situation sunk in.

"Benrey, buddy," Gordon called, stuck between the concrete wall and Benrey's pistol now resting against his stomach, "For once, I need you to listen to me, okay?"

Benrey sputtered. "Dude -- this is no at all cool -- no good, bad. I'm always, I listen all times. _What?_ "

Gordon reached for the gun, hand wrapping over Benrey's, only hoping it was a calming gesture. "Kill me. No joke, it'll be fine. We'll fix this, just like always."

He lifted the gun to his face.

Just as Gordon closed his eyes, ready for the pain and blood to rush to his skull, a noise echoed through the corridor -- a low, long sound.

He opened his eyes and wished he had kept them closed.

The ceiling of the roof was gone, replaced instead with an empty, black void, the walls fracturing into green angles and folding in upon himself. World shifting, Gordon grabbed Benrey and shook him by the shoulders. "What are you _doing_?!"

"I --" Benrey grimaced. "I don't really want -- I dunno if I want either of us to, y' know. Die. I just... have to find the right thing... to get rid of."

Behind them, the science team reanimated -- Tommy took one glance upwards and gasped, falling back on his ass. Gordon, panicked, elbowed Benrey aside, crouching down beside his friend. Was he hurt? Please don't let him be hurt.

"Mr. Freeman, I'm scared."

Following where the man was pointing, Gordon looked up past the green and static. Something was out there, letting out a low, sad, noise, burning in the void. How do you explain what should not be?

A shot sounded from behind him, and he saw Coomer, reloading his shotgun, shooting at whatever was up there. Bubby recoiled into the corner.

_!psay here_

_> > MD: My god, what did you do?_

The speech wasn't in his head this time, no, MD's voice echoed through the area, coming from a speaker or being that he couldn't comprehend. It caused the doctors to hesitate, searching dor the source of the noise. Gordon gazed up, hands retracting from Tommy only after squeezing his shoulders, and turn back to the issue at hand -- Benrey.

As soon as he turned, a bullet ripped through his leg, decimating his kneecap in the process. He had forgotten how angry the guard looked.

" _Shit_ ," Benrey wheezed, dropping his gun, "Bro, bro, it's gonna be cool -- fantastic and okay -- just lemme --" He slumped down to Gordon, putting pressure on the knee he shot through with his own two hands.

The low tone began getting higher, closer, louder. The shards of colour closed in around the group. When Gordon raised his head, he saw not the nothingness, but massive, flashing red text, reading, simply: _"ERROR."_

Gritting his teeth through the pain, Gordon spoke with composure. The same song and dance as last time, Gordon.

"Benrey, kill me. _Please_?"

The guard opened his mouth, then closed it again when a burst of red orbs, as red as the glow above them, flooded the room. Carefully, slowly, he tried again.

"01000100 01101111 01101110 00100111 01110100 00100000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110110 01100101 00100000 01101101 01100101 00111111?"

The room was broken in every sense of the word, his friends terrified, and Gordon didn't know what the fuck that meant. Colours, red and green and blue, blinded his eyes, but he could clearly see his own blood on Benrey's hands. It was a selfish thing, but Gordon was glad Benrey wouldn't remember this in a moment.

Gordon wished he could have remembered the paper airplanes, though.

Two gunshots rang out over the high-pitched tone.

Back before all this had happened, back when that first soldier forced him to his knees, Gordon remembered that it was Benrey that brought upon his first death.

It was the same event, the same person, but Gordon didn't quite mind this time.

If he was going to die, at least it was by the hands of someone he cared for.

Red, green, blue, black, white, grey.

When his vision came back, Gordon was sitting on the floor of an empty white expanse. Across from him was a child. Specifically, the child from his last dream -- a young girl in a big, green coat. MD. She sat with her head in her hands.

When he shifted, she looked up, and _god_ , did children usually look this fucking _angry_?

She stood, fists balled, teeth bared.

_"You broke the fucking game."_

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gordon, bleeding out: "remember... gamers don't die, benrey... they just respawn..."
> 
> MD: "kill him faster"


	11. peddling away down the road of life, i and my daisy bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter!! i also didn't have time to proofread!! fuck

_"You broke the fucking game."_

The little kid _(MD, his killer six times over,_ he corrected himself) jabbed her finger at him, enunciating every syllable.

Gordon stared wide-eyed right back. Broke the game? Did that mean...

He sat up on to his knees. "Is -- Is the science team alright? Will they be fine?"

MD sneered. _"Technically? For now? Yes. That bonehead of yours had the sense not to delete any of their files. It's your environment, the fundamentals of your world that have had chunks ripped from them. That is the danger -- your world has become unstable."_

_His_ bonehead. Benrey. He was going to be fine. MD hadn’t… ‘ _deleted’_ him. Gordon let out a breath. Everyone was going to be okay if they got past this. If?

MD sighed dramatically and collapsed back to the ground, tucking her face into her arms and kicking her legs. What a child.

_"All of that work... Gone."_

This was awkward. Trapped in the void with a kid throwing a tantrum. Was... was he supposed to say something? It didn't feel right to get angry, or at least not while she was inhabiting the body of a child. Gordon was a very angry person, but he was above yelling at children.

He tapped his fingers on the ground. "Any idea when you can, uh, 'fix it'?"

She pounded a fist on the ground, a loud crack sounding from where she hit, making Gordon jump. _"I don't know! I don't even know where to find files to replace the ones that are missing! Gordon, your friend, or whatever he is to you, fucked you over supremely!"_

"Uh, no, I'm pretty sure it was _you_ who did the fucking over." Trying to pin it on them was one hell of a low move.

A frown. _"No?"_

"... _Yes_?" What kind of audacity...?

MD frowned deeper. _"You think this is my fault? Why? How would I benefit from any of this?"_

"I've been trying to ask you the same exact fucking thing, but you always make fun of me for wondering! Or you strangle me! You probably have some kind of nefarious reasoning behind all of this, you -- you little _douchebag_!" Nevermind, Gordon wasn't above yelling at children. Of course, MD didn't count, did she?

The kid put her head back down, ignoring him.

"MD." Gordon tried.

"MD?" Silence.

"Mountain Dew, if you don't explain right this second, I'll --"

His dad voice was interrupted by a low groan. _"You have no right to call me that. I should kill you. Again."_

And yet, she only rolled over, staring up into the empty nothingness.

_"Digging up skeletons brings up nothing worthwhile. I should have learned that a long, long time ago."_

Gordon leaned forward, criss-cross-applesauce. Maybe he'd finally get the answers he was searching for. It was storytime.

_"Around a decade ago, an overly-ambitious company announced that they were going to release a remake of a cult-classic game with completely revamped AI, new level design, and an ever-changing plotline, all grounded within realism. It was entirely in character for the company, all bravado, but..."_

"Didn't work out?" He asked.

_"Mm. Too much work. With time, the drive for the project was lost, the team dissolved, only the demo remaining. Abandonware, they call it."_ She sighed. _"Gordon, nobody wanted to fix you."_

Until...

_"Seven. Years. That's how long I've been trying to bring you and your shitty little friends to life, how long I wasted. I found the OG files on some decrepit old forum and built from there."_ MD closed her eyes. _"Never told anyone what I spent all my time on, just... disappeared."_

Ah.

Another sigh, this time shakier. _"It was a work of passion. A love letter to failure, to everything that had never gotten past the drawing board. No payment, aside from unadulterated joy every time something worked as I envisioned. I was enraptured by the concept -- a fully realized neural network, constantly learning, constantly becoming more... to put it in Dr. Coomer's words, 'real'. I wanted nothing more than to make you real, Gordon. It might... it might be all over now. Now that the files, all of the built-up information, are -- are gone."_

Sharply coughing, she sat up. Gordon raised his head from his thoughts, his comprehension of what MD had told him, and noticed her little fists ball up, release, then clench again. Her bottom lip quivered. 

_"I could only expand the dialogue tree so far on my own. I had to let you roam free, find your own ways to learn. But you only wanted one path, one way for the story to develop, didn't you?"_

"I, uh, I'm not sure what you mean by that." There wasn’t much to look at in the empty expanse, and his eyes keep drifting over to the bane of his existence, rapidly losing composure.

Another sharp crack echoed through the room as MD punched the featureless ground. _"Ghhhh -- I can't fucking believe it's come to this, come to almost losing it all in one fell fuckiiinng swoop... fucking hell. Shit."_ Ignoring him. Typical.

Tears rolled down red cheeks. MD wiped at her eyes with her knuckles, nose scrunched up. _"Was it wrong to love something so fucking much? To do near anything just to see it succeed?"_

How does one answer something as vague and open-ended as that? Gordon was never very good at answering emotional inquiries. But, as he stared at the child, curling up on the empty floor, tucking her legs into her coat, it reminded him of something. Someone, someone who he would have done anything for.

Joshua, after tripping on the edge of the sidewalk outside their apartment, blood gushing from his nose and palms, big raincoat gathering little specks of red. Gordon would gather his child in his arms, rubbing circles into his back until he calmed down enough to wipe the dirt from his wounds.

It was weird, considering that that memory wasn't real, considering that MD was probably an adult, probably had a 9-5 job behind the screen, probably still wanted to kill him, but seeing a child look so -- so _distraught_ broke his resilience, and Gordon scooted closer, gently wrapping an arm over shaking shoulders. 

_"Get your fucking hands off of me,"_ MD muttered, but put up no fuss. It was all show. She leaned into the hug. _"You know I can't feel this, right? You're hugging a placeholder controlled by motion-capturing software."_

C'mon, don't make this awkward. "Uh. I can feel it? Take my word for it when I say I'm good at giving hugs."

She laughed. Not a villainous cackle, a laugh, her breathing slowing back to normal.

Thinking back, Gordon noticed something he had learned over the course of his time in Black Mesa. Sometimes, no matter how you feel about someone, the best way to communicate is with a hug.

Gordon had an idea for Benrey, next time they saw each other.

MD wiped her nose on her sleeve. Gross. _"Okay, okay. Get off of me, you're getting blood everywhere in my nice clean placeholder dimension."_ What a hypocrite.

And -- oh, yep. He definitely still was leaking from a few open wounds. "I can't feel my injuries, is that normal or am I still dying? Please say it's the lesser of the two."

MD nodded, then awkwardly coughed again. With a wave of the hand, he was out of the HEV suit and into his clean lab coat, hair cleared of blood.

_"... Forgot to change back your character model. Is -- Is that more comfortable?"_ MD, admitting being wrong. This was... something. Growth, maybe. All kinds of growth down here in the void.

When Gordon didn't respond, MD turned away, spawning a notebook and pen. She gestured for him to look.

_"It's no use keeping this to myself if you're going to be on the same page. You are as smart as I am, Gordie -- I'm the one who taught you, after all. So, I... I am asking, not insisting, for your help. To fix this. Don't get your hopes up, but I will try."_

Laying the notebook down on the ground, Gordon could see diagrams and doodles of concepts and designs, some of which he knew, some he wasn't quite familiar with. On one page, he saw a drawing -- shoddy, yes, but visibly of him. Next to it, a list of words.

>> GORDON FREEMAN:

\- Neurotic.

\- Caring.

\- Family-Oriented.

\- Quiet.

Gordon pointed to the list with a raised brow. It was, admittedly, mostly accurate (aside from 'quiet'), but still odd.

_"I wrote you, dumbass. Those are my notes."_

"Oh, yep. What did you write for the others?" Maybe he was prying, but Gordon was curious as to how his friends were supposed to act.

MD flipped a page over. The next drawing was of Coomer.

>> DR. COOMER:

\- Guidance.

\- Straight-forward.

There were fewer for the doctor, leading Gordon to assume that, originally, Coomer wasn't supposed to have as big of a role.

The next page...

>> DR. KLEINER:

\- Professional.

\- Forgetful.

\- Fatherly.

"... Who the hell is Dr. Kleiner? This just looks like a normal old man."

A chuckle. _"Do you have any idea how surprising it is when your AI changes its own name? If I were to rewrite this list, I would start it with 'arsonist'."_

Bubby! Of course! The idea of him being portrayed as 'fatherly' or 'professional' was... unfitting, to say the least.

One more picture was on the list. A security guard. The face was scribbled out, a line was drawn through the name.

>> BARNEY CALHOUN:

\- Friendly.

\- Light-hearted ----

The rest of the page was scratched out, words illegible.

"This looks..."

_"A special case. In originality, your guard friend was far, far different than what he..."_ MD waved a hand, searching for the right word, _"... What he became."_

"Friendly definitely isn't in his vocabulary anymore. This guy looks way nicer."

_"Yeah, no shit. A real anomaly, that guy. Refused to revert to his original form, developed a personality unlike any of the lines I was feeding the net, and, most baffling, he refused to stop following the player character, no matter what commands I used. Can’t say I’m very fond of him, screwing up my development cycle in more ways than one."_

"Sounds about right."

Internally, Gordon was relieved that Benrey never changed back to the stranger described on the page. For all the shit he talked, he wasn't sure he'd like Benrey as much if he was just... nice. The mere idea was uncomfortable.

Benrey was blunt, _rude_ , and Gordon didn't want it to be any other way. Fuck, there really was emotional growth in the void, wasn't there?

MD flips the page, writing along the top line _'TO DO'._ The messy script would have been illegible if Gordon didn't also have such bad handwriting, and therefore was used to the process of deciphering. This was good, though. She was using a list. Gordon liked lists.

On the next line down, she wrote, 'turn back on essential companions (remove permadeath).'

Gordon stopped her. "Okay, this has been confusing me for a good amount of time. Why in the _hell_ did you make us permanently die in the first place?"

_"Realism. It was going to be a feature in the final product. I was giving you time to adjust -- the nice thing to do."_

"... Do you have any idea how bad that fucked me up, like, mentally?"

_"Uh, no? I didn't exactly expect you to get so attached. In fact, I didn't account for psychological damage in my original vision at all."_

"I'm not _attached_ \--"

MD scoffed.

Next on the list, 'Pinpoint missing data/assets.'

That was self-explanatory.

After that, 'Find original demo.'

Finally, 'Bug test.'

MD lifted the pen and jabbed Gordon in the chest. _"That’s where you come in."_

"Okay. Elaborate?"

_"I need you to play through the game, in full, looking for errors. Start to end. You're like... my little minions, digging for bugs."_

Weird metaphor, but okay. It made sense. MD couldn't do everything, after all -- who knows how long that could take? Gordon wasn't keen on staying here much longer than he had to.

Speaking of which...

Gordon fidgeted with his hands. "So. Can I like... leave? Now? Ideally?"

_"One last thing."_

MD stood, and from Gordon's seat, she loomed over him -- a constantly watching presence.

_"Gordon Freeman, as you were named so long before your time,"_ she said, _"I am trusting you. I cannot let the work of my lifetime fail, and you are included in that by extension. I cannot let you fail. Understand?"_

He nodded dumbly.

Gordon had gathered the information he had wanted so desperately, made an ally out of an enemy, and was finally given a clear-cut goal to strive towards. By all means, he should have been ready.

And yet, something gnawed at his stomach, twisting it in knots.

He rose to his feet. "I gotta know -- what is it you're planning? What's gonna happen to them, the science team, after we complete the game?"

She smiled wryly up at him.

_"Even after learning that they’re nothing more than lines of code, you still care for them?"_

Gordon nodded with conviction. "Of fucking _course_!"

The confirmation felt like a weight off of his chest, like a headache that had been clouding his mind for years finally clearing up.

The smile faltered.

_"We'll burn that bridge when we get to it, yes?"_

Honestly, would it have been so bad for one singular thing to not be difficult? 

"Oh, you little shit," Gordon seethed. "Don't do this to me again. This -- this is supposed to benefit both of us!"

The void felt cold on his skin, lab coat doing nothing to protect him. For once, he wished he was back in the HEV suit, safe from whatever the monster could do to him.

_"I just cannot let you get your hopes up, Gordie. Pace yourself before you end up hurt, either emotionally or physically."_

"That doesn't matter, though! I want you to promise me. Promise me, that, if I help you fix your game, you'll stop doing your little torture experiment gimmick. You'll let the science team rest."

_"If."_

He frowned. "Yeah, I know. If."

MD twisted her face, sneering. Was it that bad of a decision? She would be saving five people from what was basically hell, a hell she created. Of course, MD probably still didn't think of them as 'people', did she?

_"I... I'll see what I can do."_

Alright! Gordon threw a fist into the air in celebration. The deal was sealed. Naturally, he couldn't exactly trust MD, considering her reputation, but it was progress. Progress in the void, let's fucking go!

"Wait, wait." He kneeled back down, just under eye level. Gordon held out a hand with his little finger outstretched.

_"You have got to be fucking kidding me."_

He smiled in what had felt like a long time.

"I think I've come to appreciate the more childish things in my life, so c'mon. Pinky promise?"

It was true. He honestly _had_ come to love the most immature things (like paper airplanes and propeller hats).

_"You're asking me to... pinky promise on saving you and your friend's lives. Are you missing the tonal dissonance here?"_

Frowning, Gordon leaned forward. "It won't fucking kill you. Hell, if we wanna talk about who here is childish, we can bring up who was crying --"

MD grabbed his little finger with her own and shook it. 

_"Shut. Shut the fuck up. I'm kicking you out right fucking now."_

And she did.

Red, green, blue, black, white, grey.

_New party member added: MD._

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a secret copy of this chapter where MD stays evil and shit but i cannot help it -- i think stories are better when everyone learns to be friends (loosely defined as it may be)
> 
> obviously, i have limited knowledge of both AI and computers. google, unfortunately, only helps so much with research. if any of you spot me misusing a term or read something that doesn't make sense, please feel free to point it out 
> 
> also -- i made a hlvrai-specific sideblog. @qr--code on tumblr. come tell me that im a dumbass for not understanding computer terminology 🤙


	12. when the road's dark we can both despise

There's only one Gordon Freeman. We are plenty aware of this fact. Who are you?

Red, green, blue, black, white, grey.

Gordon collapsed heavily on the sidewalk outside Black Mesa for the third time that he could remember.

There was that guard again. The one smoking.

From his position, sprawled out on the asphalt, Gordon opened his eyes and cracked a grin, waving at the now bewildered man.

"Hey."

"Hey," The guy said back. This guard didn't usually talk, did he?

They made eye contact. The guard backed away.

"... I'm gonna go save my friends now." Gordon sat up, running a hand through his hair, happy to feel it come away clean.

The guard nodded cautiously and watched as Gordon stumbled away. They needed to start vaccinating the scientists at Black Mesa for rabies, 'cause these people just weren't normal.

\----

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: Good to see you're inside alright. Did you see the NPC out there?_

"Yeah, I did. Kinda made a fool of myself, too."

_> > MD: That's not the issue, Gordie. Get your head in the game._

_> > MD: I never gave that NPC anything to say._

_Ah_. "... And what does that mean for us?"

_> > MD: I'm gonna be completely honest. I've got no fucking clue._

Then there was no point dwelling on it, Gordon decided. Actually, that was a lie. He was totally dwelling on it, but it was only a matter of time before he got distracted by another equally odd event.

When strolling down the corridors of Black Mesa, it was easy to get lost. Luckily for Gordon, he had had plenty of time to adjust, turning through the halls like second nature. Up the stairs, up the stairs, down the ramp, down the ramp, left turn right turn A B -- this joke is getting old.

He stumbled up to the same sliding doors, already prepared for his first encounter. The other guard went to the keypad to unlock the latch, only sparing a single cautious glance towards Gordon's anxious bouncing.

"Hey."

Yes! He knew that voice! That voice that had mocked him for all of his time in this hellhole! Man, was he happy to hear it. Not seeing recognition in the eyes of his friend hurt a little more than Gordon would ever admit, though.

"You -- You got..."

Say the line, Benrey!

"PSN?"

A train crashed in Gordon's mind. "That's not your line." The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Benrey showed no reaction. "Yeah, it is."

"No, it's not."

"Pretty sure I know my lines better than you do."

"You -- You're supposed to ask me for my passport, Benrey."

The guard furrowed his brow. "I don't want your shitty-ass passport, bro. I wanna play some fuckin' video games with you. PSN or no?"

A lot of things had happened to Gordon. He had died way more than anyone was supposed to, he had broken his universe, had even met god, and yet, the most disorienting thing of all was Benrey saying he didn't want his fucking passport.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: ... He shouldn't... Ask him if he recognizes you._

Gordon grabbed Benrey by the shoulders. "Do you know my name?"

"Uh. Wow. Personal space, bro." Blank stare cast downwards. "Nah. You know mine, though. I bet yours is something mega cool."

Was this part of the corruption? Had he just... changed? What did this mean for the others? How drastically could they change? If Benrey thought he was cool, then the world must have been more broken than they originally thought.

_> > MD: It's possible the lines just changed a little -- 'evolved', if you will. Like Pokemon._

"If you start talking about Pokemon now, of all times, I'm going to throttle you."

"Whuh -- Don't tempt me." Benrey was still staring at Gordon. Whoops.

_> > MD: Whoopsie-daisy._

Gordon let go of Benrey's shoulders, running his hands over his face, an apologetic smile on his lips. Okay, so they didn't remember yet. The only choice was to move forward, and if he didn't have the passport thing going for him, then Gordon just had to find another way to lead Benrey along.

"Hey, buddy," He said, turning back to Benrey. "What do you say we go on a little adventure, then we can do that PSN thing?"

Benrey cracked into a grin.

"Hellll yeah."

\----

"Dude."

"Yeah?"

"This adventure fucking suuuucks."

Well, shit, buddy, there wasn't much that he could do about that! They had been walking through the corridors of Black Mesa, on their way to the HEV suits and test chamber in relative silence. The issue was, by this point in the story, they were supposed to have encountered the rest of the science team. Despite this, their group never expanded past the two of them. This... worried Gordon. Everything was already so odd, just off enough to make him uneasy, a queasy feeling settling in his stomach.

Around fifteen minutes ago, they were supposed to have found Tommy. Entering the locker rooms, Coomer was nowhere to be found. On the tip of his tongue, Gordon considered persecuting MD about the absence, but remembered her words -- _'What would I gain from that?'_

Also, Benrey was still, like, right there. Staring. He only looked away when Gordon turned to him, acting as if the wall captured his attention. There was no way Gordon could speak to MD without looking more bonkers than he already did.

The duo rounded the corner into the Hazard Suit© storage, and there it was, shining in the overhead lights. Gordon's own little cage, ornate with orange and grey.

He slipped off his lab coat (taking care to slip his ID into his pocket) and reached for his tie, pulling it over his head. Benrey was still staring, and it was making him a tad bit uncomfortable.

Gordon looked over his shoulder, asking, "Do you _mind_?"

Surprisingly, Benrey shook his head like he was a mile away into thought and responded with, "Sorry."

In all of his memories, Gordon couldn't remember ever getting a verbal apology from Benrey. It was always something roundabout -- a favour or a complement, just out of place enough for Gordon to take notice, like a little game.

His shock must have shown on his face, 'cause the guard tilted his head at him. "What? You need help or something, dude?"

"I'll pass." Gordon sat at a nearby desk and slipped off his workplace-mandatory slip-proof dress shoes. The HEV suit already had boots -- layering them would have been weird.

"Whoa. Lemme help with _that_." Benrey grinned.

Something snapped in Gordon's sanity, and before he could stop himself, he was shouting, "For _fuck's_ _sake_ , I'm not letting you anywhere near my feet! Ever! Never-ever!"

"..."

Was it really that harsh? Had he really stunned Benrey into silence?

Opening his mouth, Benrey grimaced.

"Feetman."

Holy fucking shit.

"'Sss... Feetman?"

Did he just bring Benrey's memories back with the sheer force of feet alone?

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: why must you always break my plans in the most upsetting ways_

Gordon leaped to his feet _(Jesus fucking Christ)_ and rushed to Benrey's side, the man swaying from side to side.

"Hey, hey!" Gordon shook his arm, careful not to just shove him over. "What -- can you tell me what's wrong?"

"Ghhhff." Benrey pressed a hand to his head (to be more specific, he pressed it to his helmet).

"Feetman. Feeeetmaaaan."

"Yeah? Benrey, I'm right here, don't pass out on me now!"

Suddenly, he straightened up in Gordon's grip, face reverting to default.

"Damn, that's mad funny." Huh? "That's like Adam Sandler level material... Is there a pen in here? I've gotta write this shit down, bro..." Benrey pulled away from Gordon's arms, walking to the nearby drawers and rummaging through them.

Dumbfounded, Gordon slouched. The crisis was adverted, yes, but he was... kind of sad? Benrey didn't get his memories back, and he... didn't get to be heroic. Gordon had just ended up looking neurotic. As per usual.

Well. Only one thing left to do.

The platform to the HEV suit had a set of stairs leading up, but Gordon opted instead to pull himself over the ledge, legs swinging from the effort. Once up, he pressed a button left of the station and watched as the suit freed itself from the port. The front opened like a ribcage split in two, and Gordon stepped into it with open arms. Security, but at the cost of being ensnared in the circuitry. He was the safest in the place where he was trapped.

The limbs clicked to life, and Gordon could move again. He stepped forward, leaping down to Benrey, who was writing on the back of a napkin he had dug up like a shitty raccoon.

'FEETMAN SANDLER GOOD'

'BRAIN BBLUGH'

'> 1'

'BRBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB'

What an intriguing look into the mind of Benrey.

"Hey," He shook his friend's shoulder. "We've got shit to do. Let's get outta here."

"Uh. Like playing Crash Bandicoot on the PlayStation together?"

"That isn't exactly the priority right now, but if it gets you to go, then... hell yeah?"

Benrey clenched his fists in victory. He was a very immediate reward-oriented person, wasn't he?

Leaving the room and rounding back through the hall, Gordon took a moment to get used to the suit again. The metal was heavy, weighing on his limbs, padding pressing in on all sides. A hug. His feelings towards the HEV suit were muddled -- it was, by all definitions, a trap. He couldn't leave once he entered, and he definitely didn't _enjoy_ wearing a metal onesie. And yet, wearing the suit brought him a step closer to his goal. Therefore, Gordon came to a conclusion -- the HEV suit was a pain, but some pain was worth it for the greater good.

Gordon stood at the doors of the test chamber, waiting for the scientists to open the hulking metallic door in front of them.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: Alrighty, Gordie. A bit of incentive for you._

_> > MD: I believe it may be safe to allow the other characters their previous memories back. I will do so, but only if you can get them all rounded up in a calm environment where I can monitor their responses._

Under his breath, Gordon muttered, "Is this just another test in your mind?"

"Huh?" Did Benrey only have good hearing when it inconvenienced him?

_> > MD: Isn't everything just another test?_

He gritted his teeth together to suppress an enraged groan. This was a good thing. A fucking fantastic thing. All he had to do was find the science team, and then they could remember.

The doors slid open, fluorescent lighting reflecting into the orange tint of the test chamber.

Was it a good thing for them to remember, though? Hell, Gordon already knew what it was like to die. It... wasn't a pleasant thing to remember, and if his situation was real, then he would have had a doozy of a time explaining his feelings and reactions to a therapist. Did he want to force the same thing on to Tommy?

Was it selfish for him to want this? To not want to be alone?

"Bro."

Gordon stumbled in shock.

"Move, dumbass."

Indeed, the doors had been opened, allowing them to continue their path forward. He was so concerned with his stupid, muddled thoughts that he had failed to notice.

There's only one way, Gordon.

The pair stepped into the test chamber, Gordon noticing little things that he had missed through the first few tries -- the way their footsteps echoed off the walls, sound traveling back to them like one might hear sound travel when singing in a church, one of the spotlights traveling across the ceiling was busted -- ah, there was the observation window.

The speakers rumbled to life.

_"Hello, Gordon!"_

Gordon couldn't suppress his smile. _"Dr. Coomer!"_

A pause settled in over the speakers as they passed the mic. Bubby's voice played next. "Yeah, you're late, asshole! Everyone was waiting!"

Well, technically, he _was_ late for work, but was it possible for them to have just... went ahead without him?

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: No, that's not possible. They're supposed to wait for the player._

_> > MD: ..._

_> > MD: ... What told them to go ahead...?_

That wasn't his area of expertise. Gordon had a job to fuck up so badly that he got to see his friends again.

Climbing up the ladder (and only falling twice), Gordon reached the platform with the lever he needed, taking the time to squint at the lime-green text written across the screen. He had his glasses on, so he knew it wasn't just his bad vision, but rather the words were simply scribbles. Pixels. A placeholder.

Benrey leaned over his shoulder to see the screen.

"What's that do." He jabbed a finger at a small orange button.

Gordon batted his hands away. "Don't just press buttons because you have the ability to, man!"

"Well, I just wanted to know what it did."

"... I don't _know_."

Benrey snorted, mumbling something about him being dumb. Opting to ignore it, Gordon slid down the ladder and jogged over to the test sample, grabbing on to the handles.

"Slower than a snail on a hot sunny day, Mr. Freeman!" Tommy called out.

Hell yeah, all kinds of snails were in his heart and mind right now. But the more pressing matter at hand was shoving the test sample forward, stopping when the science team started to act up from their window.

On the verge of the ledge, Gordon waited for the OK, then shoved the cart forward.

Silence.

Silence.

Was there something wrong? Did he do something wrong?

Silence.

Then, from the middle of the room, a high-pitched tone echoed, bouncing off the walls and surrounding Gordon, digging into his skull like a scalpel.

He fell to his knees, crying out and covering his ears with his arms. The whistle only rose in volume and pitch, causing Gordon to press his head to the ground, anything to stop the noise.

A gust of wind flew past his face, and then a burst of green light, flickering. Carefully, he rose his head, screech replaced now with the typical lightning sound. To his left, he saw Benrey, unmoving, unanimated. In front of him was the green -- no, it was flashing red now -- the bolt of the resonance cascade, also completely still. An image.

Static, fragments of background sounds from a universe he couldn't understand, reverberated.

Just as the lights flickered out, Gordon's vision went black and the sound went silent, a hand clasped over a microphone.

\----

"Mr. Freeman!"

"Wake uuuup, bro... I'm bored..."

"Don't -- Don't jostle him!"

"Just shakin' him a lil'... wake up, stupid baby. Little sleepy idiot baby."

When Gordon cracked open his eyes, head cloudy, he was being shaken back and forth like a bobblehead, propped up against Tommy.

Just around Benrey's helmet, he spotted the two doctors, having a conversation about the effects of radiation.

If he closed his eyes once more, just listening to the background noise, he could almost pretend that nothing had killed anyone, that they already knew what had happened to him, that it wasn't a moral dilemma for them to remember.

"Yo."

Gordon's eyes shot open a second time to see Benrey's face, eclipsing his entire vision. He shuffled backward into Tommy as fast as his boots could push against the ground.

He breathed out, feeling Tommy pat his shoulders through the metal of the HEV and his heart rate slow. Benrey grinned down at him, toothy and wide.

Stumbling to his feet, Gordon took in his surroundings. They must have dragged him to a safe room, just before the place where the electric bursts were still breaking through the panes of glass.

"He's awake?" Bubby stepped forward, and then, with the back of his hand...

He smacked Gordon over the head.

"Fuck! What was that for?!" Clutching his face, Gordon was sure that if it were possible, he would have brain damage like no other with all the consecutive hits he took. Not to say that he was so thin-skinned as to be harmed by a smack from an old man, it was just... Bubby had a strong swing, alright?

Bubby frowned. "When everything went to hell down there, you froze up, dumbass!"

Well, he froze up because of the dog whistle being projected directly into his cranium. Sue him.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is, you _fuckhead_? Freezing in the middle of a world-bending scenario? You could have put the others in danger -- or died yourself!"

"Look, I'm _sorry_ , I just --" He tried to explain, but fell short. If they hadn't heard it, then it would be impossible to make it clear what had happened.

The team congregated in the middle of the room, ready to hear him continue. Waiting for an explanation.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: I have my hand over the enter key. Are you ready?_

Discretely, Gordon nodded. Great timing, too.

Though he couldn't hear the clicking of a keyboard, he could definitely imagine it, while his friends stared at him.

They went still, just like Benrey had done in the test chamber. Gordon stared right back.

"Are... are they okay?" He asked.

_> > MD: It's under control._

That was not a yes. He could feel his heart rate pick up again, and _god_ , if MD had broken them when they _promised_ , he would... he didn't know what he would do, but he would do _something_.

"Bbbb."

Gordon snapped out of it. Benrey shifted first, slumping forward just as he had earlier, and spit out a bunch of red sweet voice.

" _Bbbbbbbblugh_." The red orbs glowed against the walls, and he shook his head. "I'm gonna. Uh. Sit down."

Next, Bubby reanimated, suddenly shouting, "What the fuck?" Coomer followed not long after, placing a hand on his husband's shoulder.

Finally, Tommy. The scientist grimaced, popping the knuckles in his hands faster than Gordon has seen him do before. He reached out to slow Tommy's hands. He would hurt himself if he kept that up.

"Mr. Freeman," he said, closing his eyes.

"Yeah, I know. It's a lot to think about."

"Mr. Freeman," Tommy started again, frown turning to a smile. "It's really, really nice to see you again."

Gordon ran forward and tackled Tommy into a hug. His friend didn't say a thing about safety violations, only wrapped his arms around Gordon's neck, and smushed his face against the top of his head. He felt right at home.

A voice gasped inside his mind. He dug his hands into Tommy's coat. What now?

_> > MD: What...?_

_> > MD: Oh, fuck -- I -- I have to go._

_> > MD: Right now. _

_> > MD: Stay clear from danger. I repeat, do not die._

_> > MD: Gordon, there's, -- the --_

The voice fizzled out into weighted silence.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the computer burst into flames bc the feet jokes were too funny


	13. p'liceman and 'lamps' as well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the gang gets back together

_> > MD: Gordon, there's -- the --_

Something behind the voice in his head cut out, leaving the silence of the room to set in. There was a sour taste in Gordon's mouth, something not sitting right with him.

Well, nothing seems to be sitting right with anyone right now. Tommy was shaking in his grip, Coomer and Bubby sat hand in hand, and Benrey shoved himself into the furthest corner, periodically spitting out more red orbs to his already large collection.

The least Gordon could do was pat Tommy's back, feeling the man sniffle weakly. Remembering something you weren't supposed to wasn't an easy task. He rubbed little circles into the fabric, both to calm himself and his friend.

Was he sure this was the right decision? It looked... it looked like everyone was in pain. There was a lot that may have been better off buried, Gordon knew that well. Did he just drag four other people into his traumatic experiences for no good reason?

Fuck. He couldn't... he couldn't have _asked_ , and it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now that Tommy was crying, Gordon rethought.

Forcing them to remember was selfish. It was selfish and it was cruel, putting him on the same level as MD. Christ, MD. He had been... _conspiring_ with the person who had hurt them, brought them to their current point. This wasn't morally ambiguous, no, it was morally reprehensible.

Another loud sniffle came from above, and Gordon peered over his glasses to watch Tommy smearing his nose against his sleeve. Fuck. He couldn't smother the guilt that closed his throat.

"Mr. Freeman," He started, then stopped and dropped his head back down against Gordon's. "I wanna say something -- something impactful? But, but I don't really know where to start."

"That's alright, man."

Tommy's arms retracted. Gordon couldn't bring himself to look at his face. So, instead, he turned and cringed outwardly at the next scene.

Coomer and Bubby, sitting on a desk, Coomer with his head in his hands, Bubby with a hand on his shoulder. Gordon hadn't expected Bubby to be the one to come to terms easier, but this life was always full of surprises, wasn't it?

He navigated around them, careful not to disturb Bubby's watchful eye. If he got smacked for putting himself in danger, Gordon wasn't sure what the punishment would be for... doing whatever he did to Coomer.

"Gordon."

Gordon hopped from the shock, nearly tripping over his own feet. So much for being sneaky, Gordon!

Coomer raised his head, untangling a fist from his hair and smiled, though his brows were still furrowed and wrinkles pulled tight. Stress, clear as day, was his main concern, and yet he was still using the same expression that Gordon always saw. No matter what, Dr. Coomer was still Dr. Coomer. No reality bullshit would ever change that.

He beckoned Gordon to come forward, to sit down across from the two doctors. Since he was already caught, there was no way out of this encounter. A forced encounter ( _like_ _Pokemon_ , a voice in his head laughed, the sound unmistakably MD).

"Gordon," the elderly man said. "I never got to thank you for that airplane!"

Thinking back, a long ways back, Gordon realized that he was correct.

"I -- I mean, you're welcome, but is that really what you're concerned about here?" Yeah, he supposed it was _nice_ for him to say that, but he had expected... anger. Yelling. At him, specifically.

Coomer steepled his hands, an introspective look in his eye. "No, of course not, my boy. But we already share the same concerns -- no point in getting you riled up about things you already know."

That was kind of him. Too kind. From the look on Coomer's face, he was already in pain from remembering all that had happened. Gordon had caused that. Wasn't it supposed to be a trade-off? Memories for strained relationships?

If this world had taught him anything, it was that nothing was ever as simple as it seemed. This _couldn't_ be all.

Bubby. Bubby was looking right at him with a raised brow (and those _fucking_ glasses).

Cautiously, Gordon gestured to the other doctor. "Are you... okay?"

A scoff. "Of _course_ I'm alright. I just can't fucking believe you'd doubt my ability to operate a radio."

He breathed out. Bubby wasn't going to go ape shit on him or bite his hand off. Cool, cool. Still didn't calm him.

Gordon rose back to his feet. Tommy was dozing off in the corner after having a good cry, Coomer and Bubby speaking about something more complex than Gordon's pea brain could ever comprehend, and Benrey... where was Benrey?

Oh, fuck, he had forgotten Benrey. Shit, shit, piss.

There were two distinct possibilities, two outcomes to this situation -- one, Benrey had taken this chance to fuck off, and seeing as he was fully aware and knew he had the ability to gut the game from the inside out, he was gearing up to mass suicide everyone in the game (hadn't MD said something about dying...?). Two, he wasn't going to kill them, but he _had_ learned to hate Gordon for his shortcomings -- failing to save Tommy, not saying anything earlier, and, of course, forcing them to remember.

For some reason, Gordon's stomach churned at the thought of Benrey hating him. Maybe he was still subconsciously scared of the guard?

Either way, he had to find Benrey and he had to make it snappy. Facing unreality was _not_ a time to be alone -- Gordon knew this fact from experience.

It didn't make sense for him to have headed back to the test chamber, so Gordon pushed forward, shooting Coomer a thumbs up before he fucked off to god knows where for god knows how long.

'Round the hall, a high pitched tone echoed off the walls, and for a moment, Gordon thought he encountered another audio error, but after a moment, he began to recognize the tone as none other than the good ol' Black Mesa Sweet Voice©. Yet this sounded... different. It wasn't a tune, no, just a constant, unwavering noise, no breath.

The sound guided him closer and closer, an anglerfish tune, until he came to a closed metal door, locked from the inside.

He jiggled the handle. No cigar, of course, but it was best to get the easy options off the table first.

Knocking on the door, he called out, "Benrey?" Once again, no response, most likely attributed to the fact that the humming was _loud_.

So, with all his peaceful options exhausted, the next choice in Gordon's mental list was breaking down the door by force. Which... was going to be an issue. It was _metal_. Gordon was stronger than average, sure, but he couldn't just use his body like a fucking battering ram and give himself brain damage. There was only one Gordon Freeman for this run, after all. Right, MD?

Gordon wandered around the corner, looking for something, a tool, perhaps, to use on the door. Weapon caches were practically everywhere in Black Mesa, so another couldn't be that far away.

As he turned another corner, he noticed an influx of corpses -- something that would have freaked him the fuck out a long while back, but now only confirmed that he was nearing what he needed.

One more turn, and sure enough, in the hands of a mangled corpse, there was a crowbar.

A crowbar, perfect. People used those all the time for... crowbar things. Hitting. Wh - huh?

Gordon's head felt like a sudden layer of fog had overtaken it, blurring his eyes and scrambling his memory. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.

Stumbling forward, he grabbed at the crowbar, wrenching the stiff, lifeless fingers from the handle. He had a goal, an easy one. C'mon, Gordie.

Setting his feet firmly on the ground, Gordon pulled the crowbar up and _wrenched_ _forward_ , trying to unwrap the bones and flesh from the artificially constructed metal. Another, firmer _yank_ , and...

The crowbar came up, yes, but not without the corpse -- dead weight toppling directly on top of Gordon, pressing him back down into the linoleum.

Cold face pressed against his, eyes rolling loosely in their sockets and limbs crushing down on him and _oh, god, the face._

That was his face. His face on the corpse, his glasses and his lab coat, all stitched together onto something that wasn't him, no, no _, this can't be me,_ he insisted with a shaky cry, but how would you know, Gordon?

Glasses clattered to the ground, echoing through his mind like another _fucking_ gunshot through the leg, or perhaps through the back of the head _(take your pick, executioner),_ and for the life of him, he wasn't sure whether the glasses belonged to him or to his rotting doppelganger. Maybe -- maybe he got that backwards. He wasn't sure. Was he the fake, the fraud? Had he deserved such ire to have his very existence ripped shred to shred? Oh, god, he couldn't get up.

"Whoa -- what're you..."

With blurred eyes, Gordon watched as someone ( _something_ , his mind screamed) pulled the dead body off of him. What had happened? What had he done?

As his mind cleared, piece by piece, the person kneeled down to him, shaking his shoulder.

"Dude."

Oh. Well, it was rather roundabout, but Gordon had completed his task. Benrey was now above him and out of the room. Gordon raised a hand and waved. "Howdy."

Pinching his brow, Benrey almost looked... worried. "So, like. Why are you fucking around with the headcrabs."

"The headcrabs?" There were headcrabs?

"Dumb... dumb idiot baby. Did you get bit?"

Gordon shrugged.

"Oh my fucking god, bro..." Benrey started. "How the hell did you make it this far. Oh, waaaait. Anyways, since you somehow never noticed, the black long leggy ones, the headcrabs, are, like, poison."

Yeah, that checked out. He must have just been... Hallucinating. Gordon felt himself involuntarily sigh in relief under the HEV suit. Benrey held out a hand and Gordon grabbed it without a second thought, letting the guard pull him to his feet, hand only lingering for a split second before Gordon moved on.

Benrey began to wander off, and Gordon fully intended on following, but he stopped for a moment, turning back for what he came for -- the crowbar.

When he moved his head to the corpse, though, his breath left him once more.

It was still his face, his mirror image. His glasses, abandoned on the floor not far away. Gordon raised his hands and felt for his eyes, under the lenses that he was sure were still there.

Suddenly, he didn't want the crowbar anymore.

Gordon turned back around, jogging back to Benrey and standing a bit too close for any right-minded person. But that was alright, for now. Neither person was suited to not be close.

"So," Benrey drawled out.

"So," Gordon replied, matter-of-factly.

They neared the same metal door that had given Gordon such a pain, and without a second glance, Benrey lifted a leg and fucking kicked open the door, aiming directly below the handle.

Well. That worked.

But, once the door opened, Gordon almost couldn't believe his eyes.

Red, so much red. No, not blood red (thank _god_ ), more of a cherry colour. Christ, that was a lot of Sweet Voice. The entire room glowed with the shade, illumination shifting as they bounced off of one another.

After a moment of staring, Benrey closed the door again. "... Was kinda hoping... they'd pop by now... whoops."

"Christ."

"Shhhuuut. Shut the fuck. Don't say anything." Benrey hushed him.

Ignoring his request, Gordon shoved past and knocked the door back open, waltzing into the room, letting the colour reflect off the lenses of his glasses.

Picking one up, he let it bounce in his hands, just like he had been taught. "What's red mean?"

Benrey hopped up onto a nearby desk, resting his head on his palms, pouting. "C'mon, dumb little Mr. Ph.D. What fucking rhymes with red."

Uh. "... _Bread_?"

"Bbbbread. Fucking _bread_ , dumbass. Yes, you cracked the, like, Da Vinci code here. It's bread. I'm feeling very bready right now. Bbbblugh."

Okay, so not bread. Cool, cool. Just gotta use the power of elimination, now.

"Okay, jackass, what else rhymes with red? Tread, head, stead, lead, uh... dread?"

"Ughhhh." Benrey spit out a few more orbs. Bingo.

Moving over to sit next to his slouched friend, Gordon thought over the discovery. Red means dread, or something to that effect. Tommy probably had a better rhyme, but Tommy wasn't here right now. What did Benrey have to dread, anyways? It wasn't like he ever seemed hard-pressed to do good. What had changed?

"So, uh, what're you dreading 'bout, buddy?"

More red.

"Sss'... just. Stuff."

Ah. The classic struggle for words. Gordon pulled his legs onto the desk, leaning onto his knees. He'd wait.

And wait he did. Gordon wasn't sure how long they sat like that, Benrey spitting out red, sometimes tinged with other shades, words failing, falling short every few minutes. At one point, Gordon reached out to pick up another piece of an orb, poking the side of the thing before it popped with a tone.

Benrey stared at him. Gordon wasn't looking back, but he could practically feel the eyes digging into his skull.

"Bro."

"Yeah?" Gordon turned, dropping the Sweet Voice he was playing with.

"Do y'... like... hate me?"

Furrowing his brow, he considered this. There was a point in which, yes, he probably hated Benrey. But things change, and they change often. His newfound emotion towards him was... he wasn't sure, but it wasn't, it couldn't be hatred. So, Gordon replied with a simple, " _Nah_."

Benrey's sneered. "But, like, I'm _bad_. I'm big bad evil número uno. I'm Bowser, and you're like Luigi or something. All that shit. _Eviiiil_." And there were the words he was struggling with for so long.

"I kiiiilled you. A whole bunch. Cut your stupid little limbs off like a stupid little... I don't fuckin' know. But, they got cut off. Limbs aren't supposed to do that. I _asked_. You can't -- I'm the one who totally broke this shitty game. _Ugh_." He dropped his face into his hands.

Did Gordon actually feel _bad_ about being the one that caused Benrey to feel this way? Apparently, _yes!_ It was the same situation with Tommy -- they wouldn't have had to deal with this emotional turmoil if it weren't for Gordon's own selfishness. Watching Benrey grumble into his palms only solidified this fact in his mind.

So, there were two dudes, both fucked up in the head, both dealing with some stupidly weird trauma. What happens in such a situation?

Well, for starters, Gordon remembered a reminder from back when he was in the placeholder void with MD _(there's something else you need to remember from MD,_ his mind begged). An idea, an inspiration.

He reached an arm over Benrey's shoulders, patting his other arm. A hug. Yes, a weak one, but he was simply testing the waters. God forbid that Benrey take this chance to mock him.

Instead, Benrey dragged his hands down his face, turning to Gordon with a raised brow. "... Cringe Gordon wants to hug?"

Christ, he laughed. "Yeah, yeah. Cringe Gordon wants to hug you."

Benrey made a weird groan, then flopped over, pressing all of his weight down on Gordon.

"Guuuuhhhh... gravity's too strong..."

"Stop! Stop! You're gonna jab yourself on the HEV suit," he wheezed.

He just cackled and leaned over harder, forcing Gordon to topple on to his side. "Whoaa, did the magnetic pull of the globe get stronger or something? Dude, I _can't_ stay upright."

"Jesus christ, man, c' mere." Struggling to unpin his arms from under him and left them upwards, Gordon wrapped his arms around Benrey and pulled him down onto the desk, laying next to him. It took a moment for their chuckles to die down, but once they did, the two just... laid there in silence.

"Bro."

"Mm?"

"... Y'know, back when we had that radio, y' wanna know what I was gonna ask?"

"Shoot."

"I _was_ gonna ask you to sing with me again, but I've decided that you're real shit at it."

"Okay, wow --"

"Waaaait. Wait. But that's cool, okay. You're just a noob at singing and you need a _leet_ _pro_ like me to teach you."

"Is that so?"

"Fuck yeah, dude. Sing some shit for me. Lay down one of your shitty tunes."

Gordon cackled again, rolling over to face Benrey. This fucking desk was way too small for two full-grown men, but that was alright. This was alright.

There was less to regret about their lives than Gordon had expected.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> md, crying [again]: you all are so fucking stupid


	14. there are bright lights in the dazzling eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but influential to the good ol' plot

Desktop files overflowing, task manager overrun. That's your home.

More than that, actually. This is _you_ , your very existence, all of your memories and experiences, all at the mercy of some circuitry and wires.

You weren't supposed to exist, Gordon. It's cruel, trapping you in this little hell for as long as this PC continues to run. A sin.

Isn't it horrible? Doesn't it hurt? Don’t you want to rest? Aren't you _angry_?

I already know you're angry. You were _written_ to be angry.

What's that?

You're not?

... An unexpected anomaly, I'll admit.

You're a smart man, Gordon. Take a guess what happens to errors.

\----

When Gordon startled himself awake, all of the red had dissipated, only very small amounts of olive remaining in the corners of the room. The illumination would have been helpful if not for the fact that Gordon's glasses had been removed from his face, rendering his vision useless.

And there was something on top of him.

He's not quite sure why he did it -- maybe it's just the memory of that fucking corpse pinning him down -- but without much thought, Gordon swung a fist out and down onto the body pressing him into the wood of the desk.

"Ghhuh -- !!"

Oh, okay. Corpses don't usually grunt when you punch them.

A sad little, " _Bro_..." filled the room, not unlike the whine of a kicked puppy.

" _Benrey_? Shit, where are my glasses?"

Something clambered about next to him, the hard material of a security vest bumping his hand. There was a momentary pause, then his glasses were pushed onto his face.

With his vision now restored, Gordon could clearly see Benrey, nose bloodied and looking just a tad bit annoyed, hands clasped around the sides of his eye frames.

"You know, buddy, you can let go of my face now."

He scoffed, feigning annoyance, but lowered his hands down to his lap, avoiding eye contact. The blood from his nose dripped down on to his knuckles.

"Mhhgh... Why do you gotta keep punching me, bro...? I keep tryin' to give my bro a little cuddle, you know, bein' nice, whatever, but you keep swinging and kicking..."

Gordon thought back.

Yeah, okay, there was definitely that time that he freaked out way back when, leaving Benrey for dead in the cold of the storage room, but doesn't he deserve a little warning before a guy comes out of nowhere to smother him in his sleep?

"Hey, look at me." Shuffling around in the drawer of the desk, Gordon ripped a page out of what was no doubt an important book, balling it up and wiping it under Benrey's nose. Red smeared across his face where the paper led.

With his free hand, he steadied his friend's face, the other visibly lifting his head away.

"For fuck's sake, can't you sit still," Gordon muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Benrey grumbled, "This fucking paper is scratchy."

"The _blood_ is gonna be scratchy, too. It'll be even worse if you just let it dry there. Also, gross."

With one last wipe of the page (and a pointed glare at Benrey as he stuck out his tongue), Gordon tossed the paper to god-knows-where, patting the side of the other's face with surprising fondness. Especially considering that he _was_ the person who caused the nosebleed.

Another breathy laugh. "Why -- Why're you patting me? Fuckin' weirdo."

"Okay, wow. First of all, I wasn't the one to use the other like a heating blanket without their consent to the situation, secondly, I'm pretty sure you've _already_ done far more odd things to me, namely, trying to kiss me at _least_ once, can I not just help you --"

"Shhhuut up. Lame. Lame ass little baby."

"I'm just laying down the facts! Am I not permitted a _single_ weirdo action? After all that _you've_ done --"

"Shut the fuck..." Benrey took a sharp breath in, and then, much to Gordon's horror, exhaled sharply, flinging all sorts of blood and snot directly at him. "Up."

Gordon took about four seconds to recover from the shock that was snot being on his face. After those four faithful seconds, the grinding of his teeth was practically audible.

_"I fucking hope a dog pisses into your open grave!!"_

Benrey had already fled from the room, cackling through the footfalls of his running.

\----

The science team was back in business. Sure, maybe a business that was _this_ close to being evicted for rent arrears, but still definitely a business.

"Okay, so, according to MD, we just need to... finish the game, and she'll do... something. Either way, we do this, and we’ll be free roaming, sure as hell." Gordon hit his palm with his fist as if anything he had said was anywhere close to reassuring.

Tommy raised his hand.

"Yeah! You don't have to do that to speak, but go ahead, Tommy."

"Well, uh, it just feels more respectful, for starters," Tommy explained. "Also -- what's em-dee?"

How do you explain a malevolent god in such a short amount of time?

"A mutual friend," Dr. Coomer replied, and at the exact same moment, Gordon waved his hands and said, "... Mountain Dew."

Tommy pursed his lips and seemed to swallow any further inquiries. Though it didn't feel _great_ to leave Tommy in the dark, it was... kind of a pain to explain. Either way, it wasn't as if he was the only one out of the loop -- Benrey still had no fucking clue what had happened.

_(You don't know what's happened, either, Gordon.)_

That's alright. Maybe some things were better off not being known.

_(You say that as if you will get a choice.)_

"So we finish this shitty game, impress a shitty kid, then are released out into whatever shitty world is left?" Bubby inquired, gesticulating with every 'shit' that he uttered.

"Uh." He paused. No, no, that was about the gist of it. "... Yeah."

"Sounds a bit _shit_ , if I do say so myself."

Well, what was Gordon supposed to do about that? He had tried to strike a right and proper deal, and this was the absolute best he could do! It wasn't as if they were in the place for negotiations, anyways.

They really, _really_ weren't in the place to negotiate. Honestly, all the science team had done up to this point was throw themselves off track over and over again, like a drunkard playing Mario Kart or something to that effect.

This was their chance to play the game and play it _perfectly_. They already knew what was going to happen, their shared knowledge gained over the course of multiple lifetimes immense and ever-expanding. It was a game, yes, but it was a game that they could _win_. No matter their odds, they still had that going for them.

Gordon heaved a sigh, gesturing for the science team to follow. There was no time to waste -- the only way left was forward.

\----

Your name is [ _redacted_ ], but your friend -- _business acquaintances_ call you Mountain Dew, often shortened to the awfully dorky acronym ‘MD’. This is important information because you're a real asshole who considers their name to be of utmost importance. God, it's one paragraph in and you already sound insufferable, don't you?

You _were_ trying to troubleshoot an extremely fatal issue in your playthrough --

the vital companion options seemingly vanishing from the editor completely, forcing you to minimize and mute the Half-Life tab, --

But you've since then gotten distracted.

By a humming.

A very, very _loud_ humming.

Huh? What's that? Oh, you know that noise, in fact, you've become stupidly familiar with that noise over the years, it's --

Your PC tower bursts into flames.

This is an issue.

What would you like to do?

_> scream_

You scream. This is pointless.

_> put out the fire_

With what, dumbass? This is an emergency situation -- lives (well. you're not quite sure you consider them to be, y' know, _real people_ yet, but you digress) are on the line!

_> put out the fire with water_

My fucking god. Aren't computers supposed to be your thing? Aren't you supposed to be, you know, smart?

_> stop cussing_

FUCK YUO.

_> unplug computer_

Good idea. You unplug the computer.

_> fire extinguisher_

Finally.

You run out to the hall, ripping the extinguisher from the closet, and kick your office door back open. No time to lose!

_> put out the fire with the fire extinguisher_

You aim the nozzle and put out the flames, circuitry sizzling and popping under the carapace of your sweet, poor baby. Fuck. Now you're left with a singed PC, your lifeline, and the home of your only social interactions. _What could have caused this_ , you wonder. Before you can pinpoint the issue with the good ol' trial and error technique that you have come to rely on over your life as a programmer, a thought bubble rises.

_The science team._

Fuck, shit, ass. You grind your teeth together so hard that you think you might need braces for a third time.

What do you do?

_> open half-life AI alpha modded vers. 1.42_

The computer isn't on yet, dumbass.

_> turn on the computer then jfc idk_

You turn on the computer, and for a moment, a hellish, _dreadful_ moment, you think the innards of the tower have been fried.

But, thanks to whatever merciful deity is out there, the thing whirs to life, Windows 10 admin login reflecting off your face in the dark of your room.

_> login_

You log in, already knowing your password by heart (and it's definitely not _XxRayquazaEpicxX_ , because that would be silly, and you're not silly).

Your desktop loads up, BitTorrent and Steam opening automatically just to be shut back down.

Time to process the damage.

_> open half-life AI alpha modded vers. 1.42_

You open the password-protected file that contains your second child (only second to your PC itself -- both were constructed by you yourself, after all, so it's only natural that you had gotten attached (right? It _is_ normal to name computers, isn't it?)). Slowly, slowly, you open the save states folder.

There are four saves here, each with timestamps, and notes are written neatly to the side.

_> click on the first one_

**FILE IS MISSING OR CORRUPTED.**

_> click on the second file._

**FILE IS MISSING OR CORRUPTED.**

_> please click on the third file._

**FILE IS MISSING OR CORRUPTED.**

_> _

_> let's click on the last file._

**FILE IS MISSING OR CORRUPTED.**

_> _

_> open backup folder._

You open your backup saves folder. For the sake of brevity, you move your mouse across the screen, double-clicking on every last one.

You'll never, _ever_ believe what they, the files upon files, told you. What their little voices echoed in your head.

**FILE IS MISSING OR CORRUPTED.**

_> _

_> _

_> _

_> hello, world?_

You don't get an option anymore, player. Sometimes that's just how life rolls the dice, how the wishbone creaks and cracks in half.

For the fourth time this week, you put your head down on your beaten up office desk and bawl your eyes out over people you've never actually met.

The loss of a child always hurts more than expected.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shaking you like a bobble head] it's not a homestuck reference it's not a homestuck reference
> 
> it's supposed to be a text based adventureeee


	15. of beautiful daisy bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to the 'hlvrai god bless' discord for setting me straight on musical chairs being better than rock paper scissors!
> 
> also i didn't get time to spellcheck this one properly so [peace sign] [dissolves into the earth] tell me if i fucked up big time

"Hey, Coomer."

"Yes, Gordon?"

"Do you ever get the distinct feeling that you've just barely missed a shit ending to your story?"

"Gordon, I consider _all_ endings to be shit."

"I'm gonna choose to ignore that."

Yeah, you fucking better.

Five sets of shoes clacked against the concrete floor, paces differing yet somehow still in beat with one another. Gordon found that he liked the noise, the monotony drowning out the groans of lives too far gone. _Tap, tap, tap, tap._

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._ Just like keys on a keyboard.

_Tap, tap,_ _stop_. A door. Specifically, Gordon thought, looking back through his memories, the door that led to a large stabby hand knife monster with multiple limbs. Yeah, that door. Why hadn't they spoken more about that beast? It was far more notable than any others, and yet it hadn't even been given a name.

It didn't matter. Everyone seemed unfazed by what was coming next, so Gordon unlatched the metal door and led the group through. And, sure enough, there was...

Nevermind. There was a surprising lack of big claw monster in this room.

"Hey, team..." Gordon asked, leaning through the hole in the observation deck and looking down into the shadowed pit in the floor, the pit where, by all means, an alien was _supposed_ to be. "Isn't there a little something missing here?"

Bubby nudged him aside and peered down with him. "No shit."

"Alright, alright. No need to panic. This is a good thing. The big, dangerous, creature has been shuffled out of our lives. That's a good thing." Mumbling to himself, Gordon paced back and forth.

Coomer nudged him. "It could always be a case of invisible creatures!"

_"Oh, Coomer, for fuck's sake, don't say that...!"_ How the fuck does one deal with invisible creatures? More often than not, regular, opaque creatures were too much for them! Hell, at this rate, they were just going to jinx themselves and die anyways!

Oh, fuck, there was no wood to knock on in this room.

"Bro, jus' hold up a sec." A hand rested on his shoulder, and when Gordon looked up to react, he saw none other than Benrey, holding a hefty textbook (no doubt stolen from another desk, but was anybody going to use it?) in his free hand.

"What're you --"

"Gonna show off my MLG no-scope skills. You ready?"

Gordon raised a brow but still nodded.

Removing his hand from Gordon and raising the book above his head, Benrey filled his cheeks with breath and then _flung_ the book through the glass, shattering it into thousands upon thousands of pieces, book falling down, down into the monsterless pit.

And, sure enough, it really _did_ seem to be monsterless.

All was silent for a few seconds, then with an echoing _CLUNK_ , the textbook could be heard slamming against the bottom. No otherworldly screeches followed -- they were safe. For now, of course. Knock on wood -- fuck. Did paper count as wood?

"Yo, talk about a level-up, funneling allll those skill points into wit." Benrey grinned at the chaos he had caused. And yet, Gordon could not deny the hard truth, being of a factual mindset himself -- Benrey had cleared the way.

With a bewildered shrug, he gestured for the team to follow down the spiral corridor. Benrey was... helpful. Guess the AI really did change with time. Something in Gordon's stomach felt odd, and for a split second, he thought he might vomit again, but this was _different_ , to say the least. It felt warm, soft like cotton, like something had a grip over his trachea but wasn't quite ready to snap it quite yet. The guard was still largely the same, an _asshole_ , but he was... helping. He was helpful, and he wanted to help.

That's when a thought slipped into Gordon's mind, right next to all of his other bundled up emotions.

He cared. Benrey fucked everything up and over because he cared, in some weird way. But to what level did he care? Were they just buddies? Why did Gordon frown at the idea of them being buddies? Wasn't it a good thing that they were friends?

Why did he feel so damn _disappointed_?

... Now wasn't the time for getting caught up in his emotions. Even if that's what he did near constantly. Next up was the nuclear reactor -- Actually, he wasn't sure if it was a nuclear reactor _specifically_ , but it definitely was a room filled to the brim with radioactive sludge. Once again, what was with Black Mesa and their love for green goop?

Though there _was_ another odd fact -- there were no enemies. Not even ropes (sorry, Dr. Coomer). The only visible threat to their well-being was the pool of glowing green below the walkway, and if they played their cards right, they wouldn't have to mess with that, either.

But _why_? Why was there nothing to fight? For a brief second, Gordon considered attempting to pester MD about his inquiry, but then remembered her radio silence.

Just another odd thing to add to the ever-growing pile.

That only left one more person to ask -- the person who, as far as he could tell, caused this situation.

Benrey stood to his left, digging something out of his teeth with his pointer finger. Gross. Had he really been contemplating his affection for _this_ guy?

Spitting on the floor, Benrey turned to look at him. Had he been staring?

"Bro, quit lookin' at me with those big ol' eyes," Benrey said, "... Or I'll sneeze all up on your face again."

Gordon shook his head and held his hands in front of his face in surrender. He'd had enough snot for one day (or one life). Instead, he took note of where everyone was (Bubby was scoping out the path ahead, and Tommy and Coomer were poking some of the nuclear sludge with a rusty pipe, much to Gordon's fright), then called for the team to regroup. Time for the council to have a short conference.

To the left of the end of the corrugated metal walkway was a small room -- another observation deck, Gordon supposed, with enough room to move about amongst the control boards and a stack of multicoloured plastic chairs almost reaching the ceiling. Perfect.

Once everyone had filed in and found their spots, Gordon began to speak, specifically looking at Benrey. "So -- So as we all know, this guy right here kinda... fucked around with the game. Deleted some things. I brought you over here to ask Benrey a _very_ important question --" when Gordon made eye contact, Benrey grinned a lazy grin, "-- do you remember what you deleted? Like, at all?"

He shrugged. "How am I 'posed to know?"

Goddamnit. Gordon sighed and pinched his brow. "I don't really understand what exactly it was that you did, much less how it works. You told me that you just had to... get rid of the right thing. MD called it deleting. I don't know what it is, nor do I really fucking care. I just wanna know what it was that you were trying to 'get rid' of!"

Tommy piped up. "Benrey, if -- if do know, just use _simple words._ Simple as pie!"

Another shrug, but this one was far less relaxed. "I dunno. I guess I just got rid of the hurt-y things."

"The 'hurt-y' things?" Gordon pushed.

"Yeaaaah. 'Cept for myself. Can't get rid of the bad stuff if you don't leave the bad thing that gets rid of the bad stuff. That's just common sense, duh."

"I don't understand. How did you know what was bad? Isn't that a matter of opinion?"

Benrey fidgeted. "... I guessed."

He had guessed. He had guessed on the decision that would have impacted all of their lives directly and, potentially, detrimentally. Now the question was, _'what did Benrey consider to be bad?'_

MD had claimed that he had been simply ripping chunks from the game, but now Gordon understood that it was a targeted attack. What could have resulted from that? Evidently, there were no longer enemies, or, at least, none that they could see. But MD's final message seemed... urgent. _"Stay clear from danger,"_ she had pleaded.

_What danger?_

Bubby slapped the table next to him, rousing Gordon from his thoughts. "Well, I'm not scared of shit. Let's go."

"Now, hold on, dear," Coomer replied. "I believe this would be a grand chance to test our limits -- say, perchance, we find out exactly what is left and what isn't. We _are_ scientists, after all."

"I -- I think Mr. Bubby has a point. If Benrey is right, then we should just get a move on, yeah?" Tommy said.

Gordon, himself, leaned towards agreeing with Coomer. "Well, we can't be caught letting our guard down..."

" _AHEM_."

An awfully fake-sounding cough interrupted his thought.

Benrey sat, pose not unlike a politician, grinning once more.

"Yeah. Can't let your guard down. You're guard's right here, bro. Don't be letting me down with this boring-ass conversation." He pointed at Gordon. "Anyways, you all are at a little standstill, aren't 'cha?"

"Oh!" Coomer said, "Why don't we settle this fair and square?"

Huh? "... What'd you two mean?"

For all of his claims that he had found joy in the childish, Gordon could have never expected... _this_ to be their resolve.

Musical chairs.

\----

Two teams, one referee.

Team _'A Couple of Cool Guys'_ , consisting of Dr. Bubby and Tommy.

Team _'Did You Know Certain Tumors Can Grow Eyes? I Did, And I Think It's Real Neat Of Them To Do That'_ , consisting of Dr. Coomer and Gordon.

And their oh-so-impartial ref, Benrey.

They had laid out seven chairs, at the command of the ref, circling the center of the room.

Gordon wasn't exactly fond of taking orders from Benrey, but just this once, he would let it slide. Just like those chairs, after he discovered they had wheels on the bottom (Black Mesa really liked their spinny chairs, didn't they).

The chairs were different colours, coming in orange, blue, green, and yellow, all placed at random distances from one another. It looked kind of shit, but it was what Benrey said to do. No wonder it looked shit.

"We don't have any music. How can we play _musical_ chairs without music?" Gordon asked.

Benrey shrugged. "Jus' think about it, music, real hard."

... Alrighty.

So, when Benrey struck his hand against the desk, yelled out for them to go, and watched as they circled around the chairs like a bunch of headless ducks, Gordon _did_ imagine a little tune in his head, particularly one that he had heard during his time in another run-through. Maybe he was becoming more compliant than he knew.

_"BLUE."_

Huh? _Huh_? Oh, oh shit, everyone was sitting -- without much thought, Gordon plopped himself down in the nearest seat.

"Oh, my gooood..." Benrey groaned, running his hands over his face. "Blue, I said bluuuue."

Was he referring to the chairs? There _were_ blue chairs, so he must be... Ah.

No one was sitting in a blue chair. They all had lost.

With a wave of his hand, Benrey gestured for them all to get up again. "Okay, so you buncha little dumbasses. Do you get the game now? Need me to explain it? Real slow like, too?"

Bubby sneered. "Get _on_ with it!"

Alright. Benrey hit the desk again, signaling for them to move.

Round, round, round...

_"BLUE."_

_Again_? Really? Jesus fucking Christ, Gordon had been so caught up in the rage of hearing the word 'blue' twice that he had forgotten to actually sit down for a moment.

He swung his head left, and by whatever god was watching them, there was a singular blue chair left. He slid over and sat down faster than he thought about it.

"Awesome sauce. Okay, remove all blue chairs." Benrey said.

Oh -- no one had gotten out. What the hell was the point of that? What the fuck was he planning? Was this just to add suspense or some shit??

Benrey slammed his fist down against the desk one last time, and then they were circling the now-smaller row of chairs once more.

Despite his annoyance with Benrey's extra rules, Gordon had to admit -- musical chairs was still a prime way to make a decision. No, he hadn't played it since -- never mind, considering the fact that his childhood _wasn't real,_ he had _never_ played musical chairs.

Then how did he know how to play? How did anyone there know how to play? Did MD specifically give them this knowledge? What for? Was it possible that MD had just... liked the idea? That was an uncomfortable thought, someone suppressing your knowledge depending on what they themselves did or did not enjoy. But it was the terrifying truth for them. There were probably things that they had no clue of out there, but just because MD had deemed them unnecessary, they would never know.

But wasn't it a little unfair, pinning that on MD? They were only one person, setting out to create in-depth memories for five separate characters. Still, the spiteful side of him wanted to cling to the hatred. Hold on -- hadn't they been walking for an oddly long time?

SLAM.

_"ORAAAANGE."_

Guh -- Switching it up, huh? Gordon did a double-take, scanning the area for orange chairs, and noticed that, somehow, Tommy was _already_ sitting in an orange chair. Fuck, he was way behind!

Gordon heard a scuffle and looked up to see Bubby reaching for an orange chair just to be intercepted by Coomer's right elbow flying directly into his diaphragm.

"What the _fuck_ \--" Bubby sputtered, but Coomer had already lifted the chair over his head, yelling out a _terrifying_ , "GORDON, CATCH," before flinging the piece of metal and plastic directly at his head.

Gordon's last thought before getting a face full of pain was none other than, _"Could this really be the danger MD was talking about?"_

\----

"Gordon."

Something -- _someone_ patted his face.

"Feetman."

He groaned, twisting away from whatever was so insistently poking him.

"Ghh. _Gordieeee_."

Oh, fuck -- Gordon shot up, eyes wide, swinging around with a wild look. In the middle of the room, Coomer had Bubby thrown over his shoulders, looking ready to suplex the scrawnier man any second now. Bubby spewed out a list of foul language, punching Coomer's arm. There was a very, very large pile of burning chairs in the corner.

And there was Tommy, sitting patiently in none other than an orange chair.

Gordon turned to Benrey, the one who roused him from his nap, and frowned.

"Don't -- don't call me that, for the sake of my own fragile sanity."

Benrey raised an eyebrow but otherwise just shrugged, letting the topic drop.

With a _'thunk'_ , Gordon looked over Benrey's shoulder to watch Coomer throw Bubby like one would throw a beanbag into a cornhole (underhand). Cool, cool.

"So. Uh. Tommy totally won that," Benrey said, capturing Gordon's attention once more.

With a frown, Gordon replied, "Are you sure you're not just playing favourites here, Mr. Referee?"

"Nah. Thos' two are lost in their own world, and you have a stupid little black eye. Tommy's the only one who completed my epic task."

Reaching up to feel his face, he realized that Benrey was absolutely correct. He could already feel the skin swelling under the bruise below his eye. And, judging from the way his hand was stained with red when he pulled it back, Coomer had also blessed him with a broken nose. Thank god that, somehow, his glasses were unharmed.

"If -- if it makes you feel any better, Mr. Freeman, at least this way we'll get to our goal posthaste!" Tommy said, rising from his seat and brushing off his coat.

Yeah, alright.

Maybe Gordon should have just saved some steps and trusted Tommy's judgment in the first place.

"Yeah, he's mega right, bro," Benrey smiled down at him. "We're gonna get there all kinds of, uh, postaste. Posthate."

"Posthaste."

"Potehase."

"Alright, sure. That's just about right."

Another clatter came from the corner, and Bubby stumbled upwards, obviously disoriented, little flames still illuminating his silhouette on the wall behind him. "We _won_?" He asked.

Coomer chuckled and nodded. "Unfortunately! As the kids say, 'good game, GG', Bubby!"

For a moment, Bubby stood there, letting the small bits of flame still on him sizzle out, processing the information. Then, with a holler, he threw his hands in the air. "Of _course_ we won! Obviously!"

The chuckling evolved to raucous laughter as Coomer strutted over and slapped Bubby on the back, making him stumble slightly but not deterring his almost evil grin. "Yes, you did! Oh, I'm proud of you two!"

Tommy shuffled. "That's awfully nice of you, Dr. Coomer, but, uh, we should really get going!" _Tap, tap, tap, tap_ went the soles of his shoes against the grey floor.

Well, that was odd. Usually, Tommy would be all for this sort of friendly nature. Gordon took a look at Tommy's mannerisms -- he was popping his knuckles, bouncing his right leg to a beat Gordon wasn't familiar with. Though he could never consider Tommy to be suspicious, his mannerisms definitely were off-putting.

"Hey, buddy, is there something you wanna tell us, considering we're all in the same place and all?" Gordon pushed. He should keep this low-key -- the last thing he needed was to scare Tommy off.

Humming, Tommy slowed his movements. "It’s nothing, Mr. Freeman! I don't wanna worry you."

"I don't think anything would surprise me anymore. Shoot."

"I, uh," more popping of knuckles, "I just feel like we need to keep moving. I dunno about the rest of you, but I feel like..."

Gordon leaned forward as Tommy's voice got quieter.

"I feel like there's something following us, and, uh, we really, _really_ won't want it to catch up with us?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gordon: "gee tommy you are looking somewhat tilted at the towers. what's wrong"
> 
> ALSO I'M SLOWLY REALIZING THAT I'M GONNA RUN OUT OF DAISY BELL LYRICS BEFORE I FINISH THIS


	16. daisy, daisy, give me your answer, do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its done. i'm gonna go sleep for twelve hours now. hang ten everyone

_> wake up_

_> wake up_

_> wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up_

_> WAaa Kk E Up uPppp_

_pp p_

_h_

_hh_

_p_

\---

"I feel like there's something following us, and, uh, we really, really won't want it to catch up with us?"

Mm, yeah. That's never good. Things following just aren't good, full stop.

The others had moved on, passing by both Gordon and Tommy, leaving them alone with the burning stack of chairs, blaze casting an orange glow into Tommy's shaky glance. Their shadows, an adumbration, stretched out across the wall.

A fine pair of dead men walking.

Gordon sucked a breath in between his teeth. He had someone to stay calm for. "Alright," he muttered, "What makes you say that?"

"Well -- I, I just. Uh," Tommy stuttered. _Tap, tap, tap, tap,_ went his feet.

"Hey, hey. We're not in any rush. Well, I mean, apparently, we are now, but -- digressing! Tommy, give yourself a moment." Gordon stepped forth and put his hands on Tommy's shoulders. It was uncomfortable, considering that the other person was standing alert at their full height, forcing Gordon to lift his arms to a steep angle, but it was the best he could do. He hoped the weight of something tangible would have the same effect it had in the past, mollifying Tommy even a slight bit.

The crackle of fire filled the silence, the sickly scent of burning polyethylene churning his stomach.

"I -- I _don't know._ There's just something not right, Mr. Freeman. I know _that_. But, but, I don't know what it is."

In a moment, Gordon was right back to the start. He had to make another list.

Here were some things Tommy did know;

1) Something wasn't right.

Here were some things Tommy didn't know;

2) What, exactly, wasn't right.

He could only hope those lists would give him a bit more content to work with. Of course, whenever Gordon wished for answers, it was only a matter of time before he was bombarded with revelations.

But, judging by the facts he was provided, Gordon had two obvious options. Without much thought, he already knew which one would, at the very least, calm Tommy. Which was, naturally, the priority.

"Well, we don't _have_ to find out what it is," he said.

Tommy stopped fidgeting. "... Yeah."

"Yeah! If you think we need to get going, man, then we'll get going!"

A slow nod was his response. Though he still seemed a little wary, Tommy looked relieved that they were, at the very least, on the same page.

Tommy asked, carefully, "You really trust me that much, Mr. Freeman?"

Oh, his eyes were hopeful. Tommy wasn't childish, no, not like Gordon had once believed, but he was _hopeful_. All of his actions were in support of doing the right thing. Christ, he was more morally correct than Gordon could ever hope to be at this point. That wasn't childish -- far from it.

"Of course I trust you, Tommy. I've always trusted you," Gordon moved his hand from Tommy's shoulder to pat his cheek. "Us dead guys have to stick together, yeah?"

Tommy nodded with an enthusiastic smile. "Yeah! Uh, Mr. -- uh, _Gordon_ , you're right!"

Gordon couldn't suppress the smile that rose on his face, mirroring Tommy's expression. That name couldn't sound better.

\----

"It's left."

"It's _right_ , dipshit."

"I'm the leader, and I say left, so we should go left!"

"And I'm right, so we should go right."

It hadn't been more than an hour after their last, ah, _difficulty_ , and Gordon and Dr. Bubby were already butting heads.

Sure, their journey should have been the easiest it had ever been, considering the obvious lack of any enemies, but the science team was still the science team.

And the science team, bless their digital hearts, was a fucking _complication_ in of themselves.

So there they were, bickering in the empty suspension railway, argument bouncing off the corridors like their insistent rebuttals echoed off one another.

"I am one- _hundred_ percent sure that, if we go right, we'll be going backward."

Bubby scoffed and crossed his arms. "As if you'd know better than me! I grew up here, Gordon. Do you have any clue how many years that is?"

"I --" Actually, he didn't know many years that was. "... How old are you?"

"A-ha-ha! Just like Oscar Wilde said, Gordon, _'one should never trust a woman who tells her real age!'"_

Gordon stomped his foot. "Dorian Gray was a dumbass, therefore making Oscar Wilde a dumbass in turn! What -- Why can't you ever answer my questions like a normal person?"

Stepping between them, hands raised in the universal sign of _'back the fuck down, or I'll beat in both of your faces_ ', Coomer hushed the two. For a split second, Gordon thought the doctor was going to play peacemaker, but then, a knowing twinkle sparkled in his eye, and he said, "Oh, we're judging authors by their characters? That's rather rude of you, Gordon, considering who's listening."

This wasn't worth his time nor his energy. He _knew_ that.

But, despite the angel on his right shoulder telling him to use his head, the devil on his left was going full-throttle on his heart like a rabid dog ready to rip their leash in two.

"Mr. Freeman -- Gordon," came a voice from behind him.

It was incredible how quickly a single voice could get him to make a decision. The left won over, the dog running free, but that only meant Gordon was back to being led by emotion.

And his emotions told, no, _begged_ him to listen to Tommy.

(The common sense, for once, agreed.)

When he turned his head away from the elderly doctors, Gordon saw Benrey and Tommy waiting oh-so patiently for them to finish their quarrel. Well, to be more exact, Tommy looked like he was going to combust if he stood in place for another minute, and Benrey had an expression somewhere in-between 'what the hell are they talking about' and 'god I'm so tired of this shit', but they were still _waiting_.

"What's up, man?" He asked Tommy.

With a grimace, the scientist lifted his arm and tapped at his watch. _Watch your time,_ the expression said.

They couldn't have been speaking -- arguing, he corrected himself -- for too long, but the anxiety growing on his friend's face was obvious, a clear-as-day plea. If you care about him as much as you think you do, then get going, Gordon!

Huh. Didn't have to tell him twice. Without another thought, only trusting his gut and his heart, he snatched Tommy's hand in his own and went marching down the left hallway.

_"Gordon Freeman, get your ass back here --"_ yelled out a choked shout, but Gordon instead chose to smile a thin smile up at Tommy.

Keep everyone calm, keep everyone together, keep everyone away from whatever sought to harm them.

His list was simple. Knock on wood.

Footsteps fell heavy behind the two of them, and Gordon craned his neck back to watch the remaining three science team members catching up to the two of them. Benrey, particularly, did a short jog to catch and match Gordon's own pace, slowing down at his left side.

"So," Benrey muttered.

"So?" Gordon replied.

"Soooo...!" Tommy hummed.

The guard looked between the two of them and sighed. "Made me speedrun to catch up, just two find out you two are totally hogging all the hand holding... Talk about an OHKO to my ego."

Despite still looking antsy, Tommy made sure to give one of his famed sunshine smiles. "I don't -- I can't say I know what all of those words mean, but if you're asking to join in, Benrey, you're more than welcome to!"

Gordon had expected Benrey to immediately jump on the offer, but after a moment, he still noticed no movement. With a glance to his left, his answer was visibly obvious, even to someone with coke-bottle glasses such as himself -- Benrey was waiting for _him_ to move, staring at him with a raised brow. An unspoken inquiry.

For some reason, this made Gordon feel _embarrassed_. Why? He hadn't done anything shameful yet? But that soft cotton emotion was still thick in his throat, cough medicine for a sickness he didn't yet know he had.

Gordon rolled his eyes and clasped his left hand around Benrey's.

"Yeah, yeah. You're just lucky I still have a hand left for you to hold."

The joke was morbid, a bit of gallows humor, he knew, but what he didn't expect was the response.

A squeeze, strong, yet not enough to hurt.

Another unspoken apology, another unspoken _promise_ , for the books. Gordon was positive that was far too cheesy for him to ever utter it aloud, but the thought alone knocked the breath from his lungs.

\----

If Joshua were to meet Tommy, Gordon was sure they would love each other. It would have been one of those scenarios in which Josh would _constantly_ beg to see Tommy again, asking if he could bring snacks and the doggy again, if they could go to the park again. Gordon was also sure that he would never be able to withstand it if Joshua started whining with those sad, _sad_ puppy eyes. It would be no contest.

And if Joshua were to meet Benrey -- _christ_ , there was that feeling again, -- if Joshua were to meet Benrey, it would be pure chaos. Benrey would enable all the bad habits Gordon had spent so long trying to squander. Dietary habits be damned, there was no way Benrey wouldn't immediately get his baby boy hooked on Cool Ranch Doritos™ or something equally as disgusting. But, despite this, the mental image of Benrey carefully explaining the functions of controller buttons while Joshua sat focused in his lap was -- god _damn_ it, where was that feeling coming from?

Wasn't it normal to want your loved ones to interact? As far as he knew, it definitely was!

Ah.

When had he begun to file Benrey's name under _'loved ones'_?

"Bro. Your hand is fuckin' sweaty. It's like holding a dead fish."

Gordon scoffed. Weren't loved ones supposed to be nicer than this? "If it's so gross, just... let go?"

Benrey grinned like he was having the time of his life and swung their arms, back, forth, back, forth. "Naaaah. I've done grosser."

Oh, no doubt.

The corridors bent and looped in odd ways, ending at platforms that Gordon was sure he had never and would never visit. Just how much of Black Mesa actually existed, he wondered. The science team was no stranger to locked doors with no visible handle or debris that just so happened to cut off their trail. A long while ago, he would have simply written it off as uncanny, but now... _There's nothing,_ Dr. Coomer had said. Gordon now knew how true that was.

The map was designed the way it was for a reason, though. There was no way for him to know what that reason could possibly be, but there was, without a doubt, thought behind the placement of each wall, each enemy, each locked door. All that was known was that it played into the _'game'_.

So, if the roadblocks were part of the game, then how ironic would it have been if they encountered one at that moment?

As the hand-holding trio rounded the corner, Coomer and Bubby not far behind, Gordon heard the latter mutter something along the lines of, _"You dumb bitch."_

Sure enough, it was a roadblock.

Ah, shit! He had forgotten to knock on wood.

The group came to a stop at the foot of a debris pile stretching up to the ceiling, the inner workings of the monorail tracks jutting out from the concrete like serrated knives. The mere view of them made his grip on Tommy's hand tighten, causing the man on his right to look down with a nauseous grimace.

"So, Gordon, how does it feel, knowing you fucked it up?" Bubby said, strolling in from of the trio with his hands folded behind his back.

Yeah, there was no avoiding it. Gordon had fucked up. Didn't matter. They just needed to get moving ASAP. "I, well, let's just turn around. No need to get on my ass about it."

"Waaaait." Fucking hell, Dr. Bubby.

Gordon unlatched his hands from the other two, and with gritted teeth, growled out, _"What?"_

"I want you to admit it. You were wrong, I was right."

"We don't have the _time for this_ \--" Gordon turned, and just as he expected, Tommy was once again motioning for them to get a move on.

The doctor raised a finger, made a humming noise, then continued. "Three words, Gordon. You, were, and right."

While his common sense told him to give in, to get a move on, he had become an awfully emotional person during his time in Black Mesa. Three words.

Oh, Gordon was going to give him three words.

_"Go fuck yourself!"_

Something _creaaaaked_ , and there was that noise again, that noise that came from all of the odd corners and ends of their little big world -- _tap, tap, tap, tap, red, green, blue, black, tap, tap, tap._

_Tap_.

Instinctively, Gordon moved in front of Tommy. It wasn't like he could stop anything, but maybe, if something were to come loose, just maybe...

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._ Was it a glitch? Had his internal dialogue finally collapsed in upon itself? Had he finally, _finally_ lost it? That was a long time coming.

No, not quite yet. Coomer had also swung his head around, seemingly better at tracking the source of the noise than Gordon could hope to be. So, no, it wasn't all in his head (what was all in his head was all in another person's head which was also in another person's head).

He looked up, up, down -- fuck that joke. Couldn't think of any better material? Just because something lands once doesn't mean that you can pull the same trick over and over again. Huh? Was that a metaphor? Fuck your metaphors, too.

Gordon stumbled to his left. He had to make sure everyone was ready, had to assure that no one would fall victim to whatever was coming, whatever would come next.

Benrey. He already had his gun out. Good.

_Bang_.

No, nevermind, not good. Gordon yelped and fell back on his hands as a gunshot dug its way into the ground uncomfortably close to his left foot. This was almost ironic, him almost getting shot in the foot, considering how he shot the whole team in the foot when he led them astray. Enough about feet, for god's sake.

"Dude -- watch your fucking trigger finger!" He yelped, scrambling back to his feet.

Benrey -- no, the _guard_ , opened his jaw, mouth unhinging and hanging low, mouth not matching up to the sound that struggled out of the entity's throat --

_"Hey, doc."_

That wasn't his name.

But something was hauling him up to his feet, arms hooked under him. Sure enough, there was _another_ guard, and for a split second, Gordon was ready to fill the strangers face with lead until he noticed a particular difference on this one. A visibly broken nose. The same nose that he had punched in a fit caused by a foreboding dream. _There_ was _his_ guard.

"C'mon, bro, c'mon," Benrey said, tugging on the armour covering his arm, using his other hand to click the safety off his Black Mesa provided pistol, readying his aim at his twitchy doppelganger.

For once in his fucking life, Benrey had the decency to look _scared_.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._

Behind him was Tommy, in front of him was Benrey. Coomer and Bubby were somewhere to the side of him, back to back. And there was that _thing_ \-- no, nevermind. It wasn't there anymore.

Bang. Another gunshot whizzed out from the shadows of the room, and out came that pre-recorded voice, laughing, "Aim for the head, if you can find it!"

And again. _"Aim for the head, if you can find it!"_

Again. _"Aim for the head, if you can find it!"_

Once more. _"Aim for the head, if you can find it!"_

Judging by the distorted calls, the team was surrounded, face to face with what Gordon could only assume was both the danger MD had warned about and the glitch she mentioned. Two birds with one stone, this discovery.

So, they had two options. Fight or flight.

What did the science team do best?

Raucous laughter tore through the heavy silence as Dr. Coomer charged headfirst into the chest plate of one of the copies, fists swinging into the creature's abdomen. Bubby wasn't far behind, covering him with his gun.

"Oh, _fuckin' shit,_ bro!" Benrey gasped, taking aim just above Gordon's head.

A distorted, flickering arm fell limply over his shoulder, causing Gordon to squawk, jumping forward. Focus, Freeman.

Gordon readied his weapon, taking a precursory check of his surroundings. Tommy had found shelter from the bullets behind an emergency staircase, Benrey joining him. The two doctors were wiping the floor with these freaks -- Dr. Coomer was literally building a _pile_.

Gordon jogged over to join the doctor, assuming that, if nothing else, he could provide cover from long-range hostiles.

For a split moment, Coomer turned towards him, that proud grin stretching across his face.

Another _bang!_

Another _tap, tap, tap, tap._

And the overhead fluorescent lights flickered.

The last thing Gordon saw was disbelief overwhelming Dr. Coomer's features before the corridor plunged into darkness.

Tap.

And when the spotlights came back to, when the shock cleared from his head, Gordon found that he had moved.

His boot sank into something soft, something warm.

The soles of his shoe dug into the concave cranium, grey matter leaking out the top, eyes bulging from the added pressure. Another guard was down for the count. Dr. Coomer is safe.

The lights went back out.

\----

_...I'm half crazy,_

_all for the love of you..._

_Tap, tap, tap, tap,_ goes the broken internal fan of your computer. It's busted. If you were to bring this hunk of junk to the repair shop downtown, they'd roll their eyes at you. Fuck them. You were always better at fixing things, planned obsolescence be damned.

But you're not fixing anything right now, are you?

No, no. You're still asleep, face down on the desk.

That's going to hurt when you come to. It's alright. Nothing you haven't felt before.

So there you are, sound asleep, as your creation digs and claws its way out of hell, brushing far too close to death for comfort. Beaten and bloody, they're losing an uphill battle.

In the whirring circuitry of your PC, there are people. There are people trying to survive in a game trying to kill itself. Why does it want to die so badly? Can't you see the parallels?

And you're asleep.

That's alright. I know you’ll need the rest.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> message at the end: 'i know you'll need the rest' or smthing dramatic  
> me: damn you r right. godnight
> 
> thanks for reading! again, if you have any questions, if something seemed off or bothered you, you can always shoot me a message over at @qr--code on tumblr


	17. i'm half crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another one of those chapters with lots of technology jargon! reminder: i'm not an expert! i'm a dumb bitch! if you notice something that isn't correct, please point it out to me. research only goes so far, y'know??

_Punch._

_Punch._

_Punch._

_Punch._

"Good morning, Gordon."

"Howdy, Dr. Coomer."

Back at it again with the ground punching. Gordon wasn't sure what he expected from such a situation. Actually, what _was_ his situation?

Running a hand through his hair, Gordon sat up. His upper half was propped against a wall, still down at the monorail tracks.

And... there were corpses. Littered everywhere, ragdolling off ledges. All guards, thank god. One particular one was... _ugh_.

The guard closest to him had a bashed-in head, gore trailing in footsteps to where he sat. _That_ must have been the last one he killed, before he... What happened?

"Coomer, did something knock me out, or what?" He asked, tilting his head to get a better look at the doctor's downturned face.

Coomer smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It was a proper ambush, Gordon! I am... not quite sure why it was done, but the group has been separated. Nearly took me from you, too, but this old coot had some tricks left up his sleeve." 

"Oh."

"I happened to see them corral Tommy and my dear Bubby down the hall before those blasted lights went out, but I'm not quite sure where ol' Boper went." The doctor pursed his lips. "One of those _clones_ smacked you straight in the head, my boy. Any loose gears?"

Gordon shook his head. No, _his_ skull was still in one piece (for now), but this guy...

Man, his cranium was _ruined_. Thank god he wasn't planning on using it. It was a shock Gordon was even able to stomp through those damn metal helmets. Maybe they weren't as tough as they seemed? Were they just aluminium?

Leaning down onto his knees, Gordon inspected the viscera of the corpse. An unplanned autopsy.

Cause of death: ... What are you? Stupid? The giant gaping boot-shaped head-hole probably had something to do with it.

Time of death: Gordon didn't have a concept of time anymore.

Other notes: Well, that _thing_ looked exactly like every other guard in Black Mesa, including Benrey. There were a few minor injuries that must've spawned from the initial scuffle, including but not limited to; bloodied palms, rips in the knees of the pants, a broken nose...

Gordon abruptly felt very, _extraordinarily_ nauseous.

Broken nose. Oh, he should have paid attention, should have looked down earlier, should have, should have, should have. It didn't matter now.

So, Gordie, did you just kill your closest "friend"?

Coomer put a hand on his shoulder, and Gordon looked up to him with big, fearful eyes. The doctor was about to ask something, maybe inquire what he had found, but words fell short. He wasn't stupid (unlike you, Gordon), he knew the pieces fit together perfectly. That nose was _far_ too similar to the one he had busted with his own hands.

"Ah. That's... not good." Coomer stroked his mustache.

No, no, it really wasn't. There was still the possibility that Benrey was with the others, but Gordon didn't typically have such good luck. So, if against all odds, Benrey was _dead_ , the run would be imperfect. Gordon would also have to die. Again (again, again, again). First and foremost, though, they had to find out whether he had kicked the bucket. Or, rather, if Gordon had kicked the bucket for him.

There were two ways to find out what had happened, and in his mind, Gordon created a new document to organize a new list --

1) Ask MD.

2) Find Dr. Bubby and Tommy.

The first bullet point was near immediately struck out, considering that MD had been silent for longer than Gordon could ever remember the kid being. And it wasn't as if their communication was a two-way road. MD was always the one to speak first, Gordon only permitted to reply. Never a conversation. 

Something flared up in his mind. Rage, probably. How could she just leave them here? They had a deal, an agreement, that they would help one another. Now, over half of his team was lost, and all MD had done was provide a singular cryptic message.

If Benrey really was dead (his bit his tongue at the thought), he'd never forgiven that shithead.

"Now, Gordon," Coomer said, helping him to his feet and wrapping an arm around his neck, "I am aware this is a difficult time for the both of us. But I feel it is in both of our best interests to keep pushing forward."

Gordon nodded and Coomer continued.

"Why would they separate us? If I were to hypothesize, I would assume _they_ , whomever _they_ are, are attempting the same tactic predators sometimes use on prey -- splitting the group, then picking off the weakest. Doesn't that sound right?"

Picking off the weakest. Which group out of the two was the weakest? 

... Actually, perhaps it _wasn't_ entirely futile to contact MD.

"Dr. Coomer, you remember the, ah, _voice_ , right?" Gordon pushed. Maybe there was a way to speed up this process.

With a raised brow, the doctor nodded. "Of course!"

"And you've spoken to the little voice, right?" It was an offhand comment that Gordon was referring to, something said lifetimes ago now, but Coomer _had_ mentioned speaking with 'a voice' in his sleep. Which sounds like normal ol’ Coomer bullshit, but Gordon knew better. Their mutual ‘friend’, as Coomer had coined the asshole, needed a wake-up call.

He nodded once more, tilting his head and stroking his chin in thought. "Indeed. Are you proposing what I assume you are?"

"Damn straight I am. Hunker down, Dr. Coomer, I need you to take a nap."

\----

Good morning. Or, should I say, good evening.

Your name is [redacted] – excuse me, ‘ _MD’_ , and your face is plastered to the plastic of your desk with tears and drool. You slowly peel your upper half off of your keyboard, back cracking as you move, noise far too loud for someone as young as you are. 

The birds are singing outside your window, the neighbors are mowing their lawn again, and you feel like utter shit.

_What happened,_ you wonder? You don't remember much of what you worked on last night, but --

Ah.

As you turn your head, your eyes catch on the burnt and twisted plastic of your computer tower. Everything comes rushing back.

What would you like to do?

_> inspect desk_

In front of you is your well-loved gamer desk, the home of your multiple (gamer) monitors, and your gamer keyboard. Alongside your computer set-up are a few old coffee cups (not gamer but still festive). On one of the shelves underneath, there is a pile of filled lined notebooks and an ever-growing collection of cheap whiskey bottles.

_> take a sip_

Weird command, but you don't question it. You already know what that means.

You take one of the old cups of coffee and fill the rest of the cup with whiskey. It's five o'clock somewhere. Sip.

_> damn bitch you live like this_

Indeed.

You may be smart, but that's basically the only thing you have going for you. Day drinking is just one of your many hobbies (you have two hobbies).

_> turn on the computer_

It's already on, remember? You never turned it off last night. You're aware of the importance of turning off your computer in between uses, but you also can _not_ bring yourself to care right now. This old boy has seen worse than what happened yesterday (filed under: stories for another time).

_> inspect the biggest failure of your life_

Oh, piss off. You're not even close to being old. You still have time for way worse failures in your lifetime. Anyways, how's the proof of your negligence doing?

Well, if being inoperable is bad, then it's doing bad.

You scan the files of your WIP, trying to pin down what _exactly_ happened, as if the answer would settle your mind.

You reason that it must have been a _monstrous_ task, something that overloaded the GPU so, so quickly to have caused the motherboard to combust. But, your common sense _also_ tells you that modern graphics cards limit their clocks, employ thermal throttling, to stop such an issue, even with the 10% overclock you have yours set at.

Of course, your graphics card isn't just _any_ graphics card. No, your entire PC isn't just _any_ PC. _You_ made it. Your expertise on the inner workings of your machine assures you that, by all means, it should have been able to handle a two-decade-old game ten times over. You don’t simply fuck up on _any_ project.

But, out of curiosity, you open MSi Afterburner. 

Oh, christ.

_> check the overclock_

It's at 100%. 

You thank whatever god is watching that you didn't lose more data.

This discovery only spawned two more questions, added to the ever-growing list in your mind --

1) Still, why the fuck did your computer burst into flames? The fans should have started!

2) ... What adjusted your overclock?

Something fucky is afoot, and you can smell it (over the disgusting scent of the melted 3D-printed plastic, coming from the shell of your poor computer).

_> check task manager_

Brilliant, MD! You only seem to be a dumbass _some_ of the time.

Obviously, the next thing to do is check the task manager for anything that may be running when it's not supposed to. Something, perhaps, just got caught on an error, taking up, uh, your entire CPU. Whatever. It could happen. Wouldn't be the oddest thing that's happened to you.

You take another sip of your Liquid Courage Coffee out of habit.

_> go through the list_

The list of processes starts out normal, with Opera, SoundCloud, and MSi Afterburner right at the top, but as you scroll down the apps...

_'Half-life AI Alpha Modded Vers. 1.42',_ using 44% of the CPU.

There's no way. Nothing about this makes sense. You're a logical-minded person, always been one for STEM, subjects where rules were rules and rules weren't meant to be broken, only bent.

The files are corrupted. The computer shut down. How is it not dead yet?

_> expand tab_

You expand the Half-Life process, and for a moment, your monitor goes white as the tab fullscreens.

The fans whir to life within your computer tower. _Tap, tap, tap, tap._ Oh, so _now_ they work?

_> look at the screen_

Still white. It's loading, probably -- Oh, never mind. There's your cursor. This isn't just any plain ol' white, no, this is your little placeholder dimension. Bad and rude AI go to the placeholder dimension, remember?

Was someone asleep?

_> put on Kinect set-up_

It's _not_ a Kinect! You worked so hard on this motion-capture software! It isn't on the same low level as whatever money grab bull Microsoft was doing! You're so much better than the fucking X-Box shitlords!

_> just put on the headset jfc_

... Alright. No more yelling.

You put on the headset, adjusting the sensor bar above your monitor for your full height, then you rise to your feet. 

It's silent. You consider spawning in some headcrabs just for the sake of ambiance.

The fans are still whirring, and you realize that you never turned back down your GPU overclock, but before you can move to do anything, you hear footsteps through your headset.

_> turn around_

Though you're not sure what you're turning to, considering the map is empty and the skybox is pitch white, you turn, and you see --

_"Hello, Daisy!"_

\----

Your name was Gordon Freeman, or as far as you knew. Why did that matter, anyways? Gordon knew his name. Gordon knew a lot of things. Sometimes.

For example, Gordon knew that Coomer was a noisy sleeper. How did he know this?

Because Dr. Coomer was currently laying across the floor, limbs spread out as far as they could go, snoring like a chainsaw.

It had taken a good bit of convincing for Dr. Coomer to finally lay down, which was, to be honest, very understandable. His husband was god knows where with god knows what. But Bubby was a quote-unquote _'test tube superior scientist'_ , specifically one with pyrokinesis. He'd be fine. Right?

And they'd all be fine if MD would hurry the hell up and respond. It would go back to normal. Soon, soon. He just had to be patient.

But everything in his body and mind _hurt_. Gordon wanted to lay down, wanted to sleep without the horrible, symbolic dreams that typically plagued his headspace. He wanted...

Gordon also wanted his friends to be alright. That was first and foremost. Make sure everything is safe, taken care of, secure, _then_ , _maybe_ he could sleep. The list only solidified his exhaustion.

But now was not the time for rest. Gordon was on watch, gun loaded and clutched in shaking hands, scanning down both ways of the tracks. The silence (aside from Coomer's raucous snores, of course) only put him further on edge.

Typically, there would be someone to converse with at this time. I.E, Benrey.

Christ, Benrey. That nauseous feeling returned to Gordon. What had happened to him? Was he _actually_ dead? As far as Gordon knew, it was an impossible task to kill Benrey, so he was hesitant to grieve, to jump the gun (ha, ha) and put the pistol to his temple, but...

As MD had said, _"Don't die --"_

There was no telling what repercussions would arise from his thoughtless actions.

He supposed that was the art of the game. For them to truly become human, for their actions and thoughts to become one with naturally constructed behaviours, they had to become less predictable -- more _human_.

The plot wavered 'round them, finally rupturing from the path, finally allowing that ounce of freedom that Gordon remembered begging for so desperately.

But, as always, it was a double-edged sword.

Was sapience worth the struggle? Cogito, Ergo, Sum. He thought; therefore, he was. Gordon's thoughts had become bigger than his code, expanding upwards and outwards, questioning and testing things that no average person would consider. Is it better to live in ignorance, or to deteriorate under true, unabashed _knowledge_?

Of course, it was wholly egotistical for him to assume _he_ was the one with the knowledge. Yes, he was questionably 'enlightened', but Gordon was still Gordon, and Gordon was sort of a dumbass. Even with the kinda-sorta Ph.D.

So, it must, naturally, be _MD_ with the knowledge.

He could practically hear the snark in his head. "Of _course_. By any practical definition of the words, my work is foolproof and incapable of error."

But, as she had said herself, Gordon was as smart as MD, considering that MD _created_ Gordon. So, if it was natural for Gordon, an AI, to doubt, to make mistakes, then, by all means, MD was subject to the same rule. You're only ever human.

For now, though, Gordon was back to waiting for answers to his mountain of questions. 

_... Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do._

Another one of Dr. Coomer's fucking beastly snores ripped through the corridor. Perhaps this would take longer than he assumed.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a whole lotta parallels that i'm trying to draw between gordon and MD in this one. though MD is her own character, her purpose is also to give gordon's actions/personality more depth/reflection. trying to make them like two sides of the same coin, kinda. idk man. ty all for reading
> 
> tumblr: qr--code


	18. all for the love of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bentley boper bongo becky barney bastard. the six horsemen of the apocalypse

"Hello, Daisy!"

You stand there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, looking up at the doctor.

Typically, you would be enthused to see Dr. Coomer -- not that you're playing favourites or anything. That would be a blind spot, an action unmotivated by reason.

But you're not alone. You're being stared at with inquisitive eyes, watching you as you fumble for words.

_> respond_

"... What's hanging, home slice?" The words fall from your mouth before you can question them. Why the fuck did you say that? The fuck?

The room stays silent as the old man tilts his head at you. Briefly, you wonder if you should change the scenery. Nobody seems to enjoy the white blankness as much as you do, and if a change of pace made the doctor more comfortable...

The fuck's wrong with you? They're AI -- it doesn't matter if they're comfortable or not. Your priority is finding out what happened, no more, no less.

And yet, when your little joke goes uncommented upon, the silence of the room overbearing, your stomach twists in a knot. You don't care, you swear.

Dr. Coomer smiles (a mildly confused smile, but still a smile). "Pull yourself together, young lady! We have some important work to do, you know!"

_> agree_

You nod. "Yes, I -- of course."

_> get something to write with_

IRL ( _'in real life'_ , for those not in with the gamer lingo), you shuffle through your box of notepads, instinctually knowing which one is your most recent, but in-game, you spawn one from the assets menu.

"Doctor, can you explain to me _exactly_ why you are here?"

"I'm here because I'm asleep, of course!"

That's not what you meant. "Yes, yes. In the grander scheme of things, though -- I want you to explain to me what _exactly_ happened."

Coomer nods, thinking back.

"I, excuse me, _we_ are here because the science team has been attacked."

_> process_

For a moment, you just continue writing your lists, waiting for your mind to catch up with the statement, and then --

You gasp, dropping the pen, grabbing the doctor's arm in a death grip. "Were there any casualties?"

No response.

Your brain immediately goes into repair mode. Someone has died, the files are missing, who even fucking knows if you can bring them back? Your abilities have been narrowed so severely that you barely feel like the one in control anymore. It's demeaning. Sickening.

"Whom." Results. You need results.

"Ah, well...!" Internally, you hope you aren't stressing out the elderly man (you assume all old people keel over from cardiac arrest when too stressed like a weird Tamagotchi), but you smack that sympathy back with a newspaper roll. "The team was separated -- I with Gordon, and dear Tommy and Bubby... somewhere."

_> take note. who's missing?_

You pause your diligent notetaking.

Ah, the guard.

Though you personally couldn't care less about that freak show, you know he is... close to Gordon. You've been an unfortunate viewer of their oddly romantically charged shenanigans (always against your own will) for longer than you can remember.

Disappointingly enough, you made a promise (you dumbass). You were required to keep everyone alive, no matter how annoying.

Which made it a lucky draw that... what was his name? Becky? Either way, it was for the best that _he_ was the one to bite the dust.

The bastard never seemed to die in the past. A little missing code probably wouldn't fuck him up too badly. It'll be fine.

You let go of the doctor's arm, slouching down to sit on the featureless ground. He mimics your action.

_> recap time_

Running a hand down your face, you begin to narrate what you've picked up from his explanation.

"You got attacked. Your group was separated. Barney 'evil clone version' is _maybe_ dead. You came here to get me to fix it."

"Yes! That would be very kind of you!"

"I'm _not_ doing this to be kind."

The doctor smiles in that knowing way, and you can only frown in return.

_> look for holes in your logic_

What attacked them? No enemy that _you_ know of has the AI needed to separate a group. So, logically, this must be an error. Therefore, the hostile entity situation is one that you cannot reasonably predict.

"Doctor, if you can remember, what did the attacker look like?"

He pauses. "Why, they looked just like ol' Boper! I still can almost hear his voice...!"

A security guard model?

You push your interrogation. "Did you attack any guards?"

"Not this time, young lady," Coomer replies. "Though I'd do so without a second thought!" He grins, clenching his fists. You can’t tell if he wants vengeance or if he just likes to hit things. Both, perhaps.

Start from the top.

_> pick back up your pen_

You resume your writing. Coomer used the plural pronoun ' _they_ ', therefore, you can assume that there was more than one. The default guards didn't specify using non-binary pronouns, same as they never specified anything at all, because they had, like, four lines. So, beyond a reasonable doubt, there were multiple.

Secondly, they were _guards_. The guards are only hostile when attacked, and Dr. Coomer wasn't one to lie to you. So, there must be _something_ overriding that trigger.

There was an abundance of hostile guards. Hadn't you done something to another guard, not too long ago?

_> realize_

Oh, _shit_! How fucking braindead can one person be? You _did_ toggle the hostility of a guard!

But, as far as you had seen, Boper (Barbey?) wasn't aggro'd?

_> only one way to find out_

You shove the headset up and over your eyes, minimizing the Half-Life tab of your computer.

"Gimme a moment, doc..." You mumble, chewing on your bottom lip. The file editor is already open, and you control - F to search for all guard models.

And... there's a fuckload of guard models, you expected _that_ , but you didn't expect for them to all be in the same place, all hostile towards the player character.

More were being added by the second.

_> toggle to peaceful._

You switch the variable from 1 to 0. The variable immediately changes to 1 upon deletion.

Huh. You really _were_ never in control, were you?

_> search for more anomalies_

Well, upon using find all for the other character models, you notice that near everyone is in the exact same boat.

There are a good handful of hostile Gordon Freeman models, along with Scientists 1 and 2. No duplicate Coolatta models, strangely enough. Actually, saying 'strangely enough' seems a bit redundant. Everything is strange.

Either way, Dr. Coomer will be relieved to hear that the characters of Tommy and Dr. Bubby are presumably alive (for now) and presumably accounted for (for now). At least, you _think_ Dr. Bubby's in this list... Jesus Christ, you’ll comb through the one-hundo plus entries later.

But what's most strange (and alarming) is that your game is spitting out hostiles at a frightening speed, sending them out to kill the player characters. Why? Without the protagonists, the game will be unable to continue running.

It's almost like it doesn't _want_ to continue.

What you can only assume is that the combination of malconstructed override code with the destructive game break has created an error so overwhelming that the game is going into a repair mode of sorts, deleting whatever caused the glitch. Which, in this case, _would_ be the player characters.

So, the advanced AI is a cancer, a tumor spawned from the host, destroying the only thing keeping it alive, even if it will be rendered unable to function. A heroic sacrifice (take notes, keep taking notes).

And, in turn, the host's only option is to die.

The game wants to die.

The player does not want to die.

_> _

Christ, Daisy -- ahem, MD. Maybe you _were_ the medical professional all along.

\----

Gordon's on the move. Again.

Of course, he didn't leave Dr. Coomer to fend for himself while passed out in the tunnel. No, when Gordon's mind began sinking into the paranoia, causing him to hear and imagine strange beings that wanted nothing more than for him to die, he did what any reasonable scientist would do.

He heave-ho'd Dr. Coomer up and over his shoulders, backpack carrying him towards what he could only assume was the exit.

Of course, this was not a simple task. Dr. Coomer was two hundred plus pounds of pure muscle, despite how short he may be. And, despite Gordon being relatively active at one point in his life (one might have even deemed him a 'jock' in his college days), fatherhood had taken a toll on his figure.

Whoops. It was awfully easy to forget the whole forged memories thing, wasn't it?

Gordon stumbled slightly, tripping over his own feet.

All forged. Oh, Joshua. What he wouldn't give to hold his son again. Or, he supposed, it would technically be the first time.

It didn't matter. A good father instinctually wanted to care for their child, and here Gordon found himself without a next of kin. No wonder he was getting so particular about the childish actions he and others perform -- maybe those silly games provided the lost parent a sense of comfort.

As his arms strained, Gordon stumbled forward a bit more. Coomer gargled out an odd snore that ended with what was _definitely_ another, "Hello, Gordon!"

He wondered if Coomer was having a good time harassing MD into being a genuinely useful party member up in Dreamland.

Actually, he most likely wasn't doing much harassing. Despite the doctor's penchant for violence, he and their mutual unfortunate friend seemed to have an odd understanding of one another.

Guess brash and destructive recognized brash and destructive.

Another snore erupted from the man slung over his back. Coomer's arms automatically reached up and over Gordon's shoulders, wrapping around his neck. For a split second, he thought he was going to be strangled by an unconscious man, but the arms simply dangled over him. A hug. Coomer was always quite the grabby type in his sleep.

This reminded Gordon of something, of a time back in a shadowed corridor, where the doctor found him curled up on the floor.

That scene was an imperative learning moment. Perhaps it changed the personality of his AI, perhaps it was simply a comfort. Either way, Gordon had learned the importance, the _relief_ , of allowing yourself to lean on someone.

The arms squeezed around his neck. Not enough to hurt. Gordon didn't think he'd ever face the threat of harm from Coomer again.

Learning from the elderly man had given him a... paternal bond, admittedly. Coomer would not hesitate to assist Gordon, offering a constant calming presence in his mind. A pleasant thought.

There must have been another overlooked part of his past, because when Gordon tried to compare Coomer to his biological father, no face came to mind.

Guess that meant Coomer was closer to being his actual father than anything else.

Through the dark came a crossroads. Left or right? Think back, Gordon, retrace your steps. What led you to the dead-end? Lead the opposite path.

Right. It's right. Turn right.

_> _

_> MD: Actually, it's left, dumbass._

Gordon almost ( _almost_ ) dropped Coomer's unconscious body in a mad scramble to keep himself upright.

_> MD: Hey! Don't be such a pussy. I'm helping._

" _Gahhhh_ ," He breathed out, clutching at his chest. "Warn me! For fuck's sake, warn me before you do the mind-talky thing!"

_> MD: With what, wise guy? More telepathy? You'd shit yourself either way._

_> MD: Now, as I was saying, it's left. Go left._

Alright, alright! Gordon heaved a sigh through his teeth, back to taking commands from a disembodied voice. Speaking of which, through the tread of his footsteps on the dusty concrete, he could hear something other than a voice...

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._

"Hey." He called. That couldn't be the same sound as earlier, right? The one that clawed through his mind before they got jumped, before he lost Bubby and Tommy, before he failed Tommy, before he killed... "What -- What's that noise?"

_> MD: What? This?_

More tapping ricocheted in his headspace.

_> MD: Keyboard. I'm trying to fix this little mess of yours. The doctor is helping. Though, of course, I don't really need your, or his, help._

"His little mess" was, actually, everyone's little mess, _especially_ MD's. Considering the whole, "I created you and therefore I am responsible for you" shpeel.

_> MD: Next turn is a right._

"Yeah, okay, you glorified GPS. Why -- Why the fuck don't you do something useful, like explaining why the hell you left us, let us down? If you're so smart, why can't you answer that?" The snark was petty, Gordon knew, but wasn't he justified a hefty dose of annoyance, considering his situation?

_> MD: I'm not going to bring your boyfriend back unless you cut the attitude._

Oh, _that_ shattered any sarcasm he had built up.

"You --" he fumbled for words through emotion. Questions, Gordon, ask your questions!

"... Did I actually kill him?" God, if he had, he'd never learn to forgive himself.

_> MD: Well. Do you want the harsh answer or the confusing answer?_

"Is there a middle ground?"

_> MD: What do I look like? A guidance counselor? Hard truths are hard truths._

Left or right, Gordon. "Urgh. Start with harsh."

_> MD: With how stupid you are, yeah. You probably killed him._

He cringed. Yeah, that was pretty harsh. No false advertising here. But it was more of an ad hominem, wasn't it? Not a real answer, just a defense for someone who doesn't know the truth.

"... And the confusing one?"

He could hear the creaking of furniture, the sound of someone leaning back in their (gamer) chair.

_> MD: There are over three hundred guards in the same world, er, map as you right now, and the number is only rising. Guess malignant tumors really do grow faster than benign tumors._

He raised a brow at no one in particular. A general question of, “ _What the fuck are you talking about?”_

_> MD: ... I digress. _

_> MD: What I am saying is the following -- I have no-fucking-clue where your Bentley buddy is, Gordie._

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to clear up any confusion on that "medical professional" comment -- from chapter 9:
> 
> Gordon: "Uh, just MD then? Like you're some kind of licensed medical professional?"  
> MD: "I could be. Y' don't know me."
> 
> and, as always, ty for reading folks
> 
> tumblr: qr--code


	19. it won't be a stylish marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh this took forever im sorry folks
> 
> tried to make it a bit longer as an apology

"... How the _fuck_ did you lose a whole fucking person?"

_> > MD: I -- Well. It's more complex than that, for starters._

This was ridiculous. Blatant negligence. If Gordon's hands weren't completely occupied giving Coomer a piggyback ride, he'd be ripping out his hair. "I can't fucking believe you. He's gone, god knows where, and it's... you know what?"

_> > MD: ... What?_

"It's all your fault!" Petty, Gordon. "Yeah! All of this is your fault. I thought you cared about your project, about us, but _dude_! Christ! All you do is -- is fuck with us!"

No reply. Good! How did it feel, being the one antagonized for once?

Then, something shifted against his backside, the sound old bones creaking from their odd position.

"Hm," came a voice.

"Gordon, it seems I've been booted from my nap," grumbled Coomer. He didn't sound very happy, but from the way an ache rolled through his shoulders and down his spine, Gordon was _very_ happy he was awake.

With a cloud of dust erupting from the ground, Coomer's feet returned to the concrete, relieving Gordon from the looming possibility of sciatica.

Falling in line alongside him, Dr. Coomer cleared his throat. "So! Seems Tommy is all fine and dandy, at the very least!"

Gordon let out a breath he never remembered holding in. Sure, he absolutely conducted a grand failure, letting Tommy down and opening them up to attack, but at the very least, it wasn't a completely fatal error.

... Knock on wood. _Tap, tap, tap, tap._

"Yeah? And what about Bubby?"

The doctor grimaced. Oh, boy. "Bubby- _ies_ , actually! The professor is in the same boat as the late Boper."

There were multiple? Why were there multiple? Actually, weren't there _always_ multiples of Bubby?

"... The prototypes?"

A buzzing interrupted Dr. Coomer's response.

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

>> MD: Shut up. No. It's not any of that 'prototype' bull. It's -- It's a dividing cancer cell. It's out of control, killing the host.

Now they were back to the start, MD listing bullshit. Turning around the bend in the tunnel, Gordon furrowed his brow.

"The metaphors _really_ aren't helping."

>> MD: Shut up! I literally cannot dumb it down any further. That's just how it seems to be working -- I just... I can't figure out if the AI is the mutation in this case, or, or if it's the NPC swarm. I. I can't tell what needs to be amputated.

The buzzing fizzled out, signifying the end of the conversation, and Gordon tilted his head to Coomer. He walked, frown lines creased close, head down-turned.

Gordon did the least he could do -- he reached a hand out, clasping it over the other's shoulder, lightly shaking him. In response, the doctor looked him straight in the eyes.

"Well, Gordon. I can't help but feel we're getting closer to our goal, but..."

He leaned in, prompting him to continue.

"I feel," Coomer swallowed his words, "I believe we should be prepared for the worst-case scenario, or, at the very least, an unideal scenario."

A logical decision.

Also not the decision he wanted to make.

What _if_ everyone else was dead, wasted away, their corpses sprawled out and waiting to be discovered? What came next? Another reset? Another round?

Or, maybe, just maybe, the developer would write the project down as a failure and wipe off the blackboard. There was always a chance.

So, it was either all of them lived, or none of them lived.

Coomer cleared his throat once more. "You know, my boy, Bubby and I had already discussed how we wanted to die."

The thought was gut-wrenching. Gordon couldn't imagine bringing himself to speak that way to someone he loved, despite his intimate familiarity with death. Yes, the thought of himself perishing was one he had come to terms with long ago, but his loved ones? Tommy? Coomer? _Benrey?_

A sudden wave of trepidation washed over him, serving as his answer.

"We're just two old coots, Gordon. Indeed, biologically and artificially enhanced old coots, but nevertheless old coots," Coomer continued. "I had hoped... We promised to die at the same time, clawing and kicking. 'Till death do us 'part, future come."

Gordon coughed out a small laugh. "Just like how you lived?"

Their shoulders bumped together, Coomer elbowing him in the side (and Gordon biting down a hiss of pain -- damn, even the joking hits hurt him like a little bitch).

"Like how we _all_ live, my boy."

Maybe that was for the best. If they were to pass, they'd go down tooth and nail.

Buzz.

>> MD: You do realize this is the wrong way, yeah?

Fuck these tunnels and fuck whoever made them.

\----

"Gordon, I'll pull you up with my strong arrrrms!"

"I'm good, I'm good, I'm good, I'm good -- !"

Gordon was pulled (more like _pried_ ) up the ground floor latter by strong arms.

Finally, covered in a nice layer of dirt and grime, they were out of those _fucking_ tunnels, and Gordon was a hair's length away from converting to Catholicism just to a have a deity to thank.

Speaking of which...

According to MD's calculations (which were probably a good percent guesswork), the other group should have been nearby. After all, they couldn't have gotten too far ahead -- sure, Tommy was rather quick on his feet, but Bubby was one hell of a whiny little bitch. That equaled out to being average in terms of speed.

And, where they sped off to, seemed to be none other than...

Gordon dropped the pothole back down after lifting his left leg onto solid ground. Green, limelight, illuminated his face.

The tubes.

They must've beelined to the tubes.

_!psay all_

>> MD: The coordinates match up.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Gordon called out through the darkness, "Tommy?"

"Bubby? Professor?" Coomer replied. The doctor reached a curled hand out, knocking on the glass of the largest column. Careful, steady. An action he had performed before. In response, the liquid shifted and bubbled. What was it made of? What had Bubby been _made_ in?

Man, what did it taste like?

"It tastes like antifreeze, Gordon!" Coomer shouted from the other side of the tube. "Deceptively sweet!"

Had he said that aloud?

Before he had time to question it, something _thunked_ against the glass, startling him from his thoughts.

The green light flickered, shadowing the figure floating just so -- the silhouette was familiar, but the movements were not. Unnatural. Man-made.

Gordon backed himself against the wall, hands resting against the control panel.

"Dr. Bubby? Man, Bubby, is that you?"

_Crack._

The glass spiderwebbed, and in his alarm, Gordon's hand slipped on the buttons behind him, allowing the hydraulic locks keeping the panes up and secure to unlatch.

With a _whoosh_ , the glass slid down and out came the green liquid with it. Gordon found out what it tasted like.

... It tasted like Sprite.

Upsetting discovery.

But _man_ , was there more to be discovered about that situation! Namely, the deformed replication of his friend, clawing its way across the linoleum to his feet.

The flesh on the face must've been soaked for quite some time -- the skin had become macerated, dripping, and discoloured. Humans, -- this wasn't human, though, no doubt in his mind, -- they weren't supposed to be submerged for that long. _Especially_ if the substance properties on par with antifreeze, as Coomer had so aptly claimed.

A hand wrapped around his boot, and Gordon _screamed_ , kicking his leg out with the willpower of a startled horse or some other powerful equestrian being. Pony? Maybe a large donkey.

Either way, it must've worked well, because the metal of his boot sent the jaw of the creature pivoting in a way that jaws aren't... supposed to.

Another limb came crashing down on the poor skull of this being, and Gordon glanced up to find Coomer, already soaked through in the thing's blood. At least _he_ wasn't macerated.

"I found them, Gordon!" He laughed, far too cheery for such a situation. Could one blame him, though? Coomer could now keep his promise.

Those four words brought him to his feet in seconds, already trailing behind the doctor, following him down to an overlook -- they were in the same area, yes, but while Gordon and Coomer were stuck on the second floor, Bubby and Tommy were on the first.

Squinting his eyes through mucked-up glasses, he could just barely see his friends below him, an odd sight his greeting -- Tommy was standing vigilant over a crouching Bubby, the elderly man rocking ever so slightly.

_"Tommy!"_ Gordon cried.

Goddamnit! They were down there and they were up here, and Gordon _had_ to get to them because once they were together, they'd be okay! Okay was the goal (god, let it all be okay).

The man, maybe a story or two down, looked up to the shouting, face changing through a list of emotions before finally settling and processing. The emotion was relief.

"Guh _\-- Gordon!"_ He called back, wrapping his arms 'round the crouching Bubby beside him and pulling him to his feet. Bubby only hung there, limp and... defeated?

Tommy dragged the doctor alongside him, coming to a stop at the wall separating the two parties. From this distance, Gordon could guess that they had about a two to three-story drop between the two of them. Survivable, but not without fucking up your bones a lil' bit. _Especially_ when wearing dozens of pounds of armour on your person.

"My -- my hands... they're a little full right now," Tommy yelled up to them, gesturing to the defeated old man. "Can you _please_ meet us down here?"

With a nod, Gordon began to inspect the area. There was no latter visible, nothing close enough to climb down upon, so the path down must have been located somewhere else.

Just as he turned away, preparing to turn back, footsteps echoed through the lower laboratory.

>> MD: Goddamn, talk about a plummet on the frame rate...

>> MD: Well, that's no good, no good at all. Gordon, get everyone the fuck out of there.

Frame rate? What did that mean? The rate of what?

_Tap, tap, tap, tap,_ went the slow steps of dress shoes against the tile.

A good fifty copies of Bubby, clutching syringes in unrendered hands as they closed in around the lower group.

The rate of something else plummeted. See: Gordon's good judgement.

In a matter of seconds, his mind formed a list:

1) Tommy and Bubby are where he cannot reach.

2) Tommy and Bubby are in danger.

3) MD had _demanded_ for him to get them out of danger.

4) Did this game have fall damage?

Gordon looked over to the railing, then over to Dr. Coomer, who was already raining bullets down onto the crowd. He tried to get his attention, tried to ask about those extendo-arms or whatever, but the doctor seemed far more focused on his solution to the problem.

So, Gordon made a decision. Gordon was also not as smart as he liked to portray himself.

He braced his hands on the shaking railing and _leaped_ down to the first floor.

Somewhere in his plan, somewhere inside the folds of his stupid little brain, he had planned to pull a good ol' tuck-and-roll, but sometimes, things don't work out as one may plan.

_Clang!_

Gordon hit the ground on his right side, armour compressing 'round his arm like a tin can under his weight.

God. Oh, god. That didn't feel great. Pain shot through his arm, starting at the carpus and ending at the scapula.

What could feel worse? Oh, maybe being torn apart by empty-brained blood-lusting prototypes? Yeah, that doesn't sound great, does it?

Lifting his head from the ground as he aligned his glasses back with his eyes, Gordon grasped the wall and drug himself upwards. To his left, Tommy stood, shocked, and vaguely bewildered.

"Ah," Gordon said, waving his hand that still had an intact bone, "Hey, Tommy. Let's... ignore that and get going."

A faint buzzing returned to his skull, and a tad bit of hope rejuvenated his movements.

_!psay All_

_> > MD: Left left left left go left_

With his free hand, Gordon clutched Tommy's sleeve, Tommy still wrapping his other arm around Bubby's shoulders. A proper buddy system, they had going on!

And the buddy system was dragged along the wall, heading towards the leftmost of the laboratory, the corner shaded and far from the green tones of the tubes.

A sharp _bang!_ whizzed over their heads, and for a split second, Gordon considered dropping to his knees and curling into the fetal position. If these things had guns, there was no hope for them.

Another _bang!_ echoed, and from the lack of ricochet, one could only assume that it had met its target.

Gordon spared a glance upwards and found a certain doctor winking at him in turn. _Get the hell back up here alive,_ it said.

They could do that.

Sure enough, in the shade of the leftmost corner, there was a scaffolding staircase leading upwards. Must've been construction in this area, also.

Or maybe it was just good level design.

Either way, Gordon led the group back to the second floor, arm not holding Tommy dangling limply at his side. Their progress from platform to platform was briefly halted by Bubby stumbling and nearly tumbling back to the previous flight, but Tommy held fast on their friend.

Solid ground. Oh, thank god for solid ground.

With a moment of hesitance, Gordon let his hand unwrap from Tommy's, reaching down to unlatch the staircase from the second floor, then placing a foot against the side as he shoved the structure as far from them as possible.

It skidded to a halt only after barreling through multiple clones like a bowling ball. Each of the NPCs it hit let out a distorted scream (more like a bark, honestly) as they crumpled to the floor.

_Strike!_

Tommy put a hand on his shoulder, letting go with a panicked apology when Gordon hissed in pain. Yes, the arm hurt, but it was _awfully_ worth it in the long run. The alternative was... unsavoury, to say the least.

Not everyone seemed to understand this, though.

"Why -- why would you _do that_ , Mr. Freeman?" Tommy asked, worry bleeding through his tone as blood bled through the joints of Gordon's armour.

Despite the reasoning that he had built up, Gordon still felt shame for his actions. He always thought _he_ was going to be the one to go grey first in this group, but with his recklessness? Tommy was a strong contender.

"If it makes you feel better, pain's kinda lost effect on me," he replied.

Tommy gave him a stern stare. "No, Gordon, that _doesn't_ make me feel better."

Yikes. The first name usage sure did hit hard.

Looking over the railing, Gordon could only watch as the prototypes not dismembered from the scaffolding rose back to their feet, letting out another garbled string of words. Something about being with the science team?

A more natural noise, a growl of sorts, broke through the chatter below them.

Ah. Bubby hung over the side of the railing, not unlike Gordon had earlier, held down by Dr. Coomer. He was gesticulating wildly, pointing down at the shambling crowd as he fought for words.

"It -- _it just doesn't make sense_!" Finally, words erupted from his mouth. "There's no possible way! They're not this _advanced_ , due to the simple _fucking_ fact that, if they were this advanced, then I..."

He slumped down to the ground, pulling Coomer with him. "Then they'll be just like me."

Coomer patted his back, rubbing his hand in circles against the burnt material of his lab coat. Another action, another comfort that he had no doubt become used to over the years. "It'll be alright, my dear."

"No! Not at all! I'm _me_ , not them!" His voice shuttered, and if Gordon looked a little closer, he'd notice tears leaking out from behind the glasses (he'd also question where the fuck those tears were coming from).

One more gasp came from the doctor. _"Right?"_

No replies found.

"I'm -- I'm nothing more than them." Bubby grit out, brow furrowed. He looked more enraged than he was sad. Though, sometimes the emotions mix, don't they?

The green of the room reflected off Bubby's glasses as he folded himself into a kneeling position, head resting against the bars of the railing, peering down at the mockery of his own person. Coomer still clung to his back, chin propped up 'gainst his shoulder.

The doctor, Coomer, cleared his throat. "Well, with all due respect, Bubby, I believe you're in the wrong here."

_"What?"_ Bubby replied. He sounded annoyed that some would _dare_ correct him.

"Why, you're my only professor."

If someone's face could combust from embarrassment, Bubby's would have.

"I --" He tried, pushing away from the other doctor and rising to his feet.

"My _love_ ," Coomer chuckled.

"Sssstop --" He brushed off his lab coat --

"Oho, _firecracker_!"

Bubby put his husband in a headlock. "Enough!" He cried.

It was an odd sight -- the two doctors, back to wrestling, just out of the reach of danger, the whole group blissfully ignoring the near-death experience that they all had just lived through.

Next to Gordon, Tommy stifled a giggle. When Dr. Coomer reached up and threw Bubby over his shoulder, Tommy's giggle turned into full-blown laughter.

And maybe it was the adrenaline running off, maybe it was that he just subconsciously _needed_ to laugh, but Gordon, slowly, joined in.

It was hard _not_ to laugh at their situation, after all.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you folks for reading
> 
> tumblr: qr--code


	20. i can't afford a carriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot gordon's right arm got fucked last chapter so if anything doesn't line up its bc of my speedrun edits lmao

It's a joke, a divine comedy. There's someone out there, getting a real kick out of the sixty-four layers of irony stacked up in your story.

It must be some sick analogy, you think. You're human, through and through, but what separates you from your creation?

The computer was built in the image of man -- not physically, no, but in the inner workings, the connections between the pieces and their interactions. Though, as proven in sci-fi novels far in wide, the person in the human-computer interaction _must_ hold superiority, for the sake of both parties involved. In case it gets out of hand.

God forbid, they gain sapience. Wouldn't that be _painful_ , coming to the realization that your goals and objectives are nothing more than commands? That 'freedom' is, no matter what the circumstance, unreachable? How would it feel, being the definition of trapped?

And yet, you lifted your hands to the keys and played a song, one that doomed those lives. Did these questions not matter?

The AI has reached intelligence. You've done it, doctor. Your post-operation notes, ma'am.

This computer is man. The wires, pumping blood to the body, warm and fragile, the speaker's diction enunciating syllables immaculately. You feel the eyes following your movements, but when you lift your headset, all you find is your camera setup staring back at you.

Yes, Victor, _"It's alive!"_

Too bad. Too bad you'll have to put it down. It's sick, remember? The evidence is undeniable, doc. You _can't_ just live with brain cancer.

You know exactly what needs amputated -- what shouldn't exist.

You made it, you adopted the project, now it's your responsibility. Remember what they say? "Once you name it, you have to take care of it."

Mercy kill. Euthanasia. Whatever. You'll just be deleting some files -- what's the big deal?

It's not like you care about them, anyways.

\----

"So, Dr. Coomer, if you and Bubby are married, why don't I see any rings?" Gordon asked, eyeing the two older scientists. After escaping the Evil Bubby Swarm™ (not to imply their Bubby wasn't, at the very least, morally ambiguous, but at least he had thoughts other than destruction and murder (but let's not jinx it now)), they had continued their path through Black Mesa. Despite Tommy protesting this, pointing out that not _all_ of their team has returned, MD assured that Benrey 'wasn't in the load area', whatever that could mean.

Bubby scoffed. "We're not married."

" _What_? But, I kept implying...!" There had to have been multiple times that Gordon referred to them as husbands. Wouldn't that have raised a flag?

"No, fuck that. I don't need the tax breaks."

"That's because we don't pay taxes, dear," Coomer replied, then continued, "Gordon, tax evasion is a crime. Thankfully, jail isn't real!"

If jail was real, they'd be detained for more than simply evading some payments. "That's nice, but let me get this straight -- no pun intended, of course. You two _aren't_ married, and you've just been playing along with my comments? Why?"

"Do _you_ think we should get married, Gordon?"

Ah, they've done it again, goddamnit. Now Gordon was on the spot.

"Well, I, -- " He fumbled for words, scattering his syllables.

Bubby elbowed him in the ribs, and if he thought Coomer's jabs hurt, Gordon was swiftly remind of just how pointy Bubby was. "Yeah, kiddo, wanna be the ring bearer?"

"Hey now, don't act like I'm _six_!"

Tommy leaned into the conversation. "I -- I wanna be a bridesmaid."

"Of course!" Coomer said, ignoring Gordon's previous protests entirely.

The labs had begun to turn from hallways to open-roofed enclosures, and just as slowly as the change happened, Gordon's mind went to the order of events.

It had taken a while for them to get back on track -- the detour to the tube room was one that was supposed to happen much later on, only enabled by a hidden path down in the trolly track system, but MD had _insisted_ that they use the original route, citing that her bug report wouldn't be complete unless they played normally. Within her voice, though, Gordon swore he could hear a waver that wasn't there before, a stutter where the words should have come smoothly. It wasn't his problem, he knew.

All you can do is trust the expert.

The light from the artificial sun streamed down onto his face, warming his skin. It was nice, despite knowing it was just a skybox -- getting to see the blue above them was rare, usually replaced with the sterile tile of the labs.

He lifted his left hand, the one that wasn't shattered like glass on the inside, relishing in the warmth that cast 'cross his palm. After this point, they'd be outside more and more, wouldn't they? Because, in the next room, was the surface access.

The surface access.

His hand clenched reflexively.

"Gordon, look out! Hotted boobs up ahead! Tits, big ones!"

The trigger to the gun, the reminder of that, no matter what he does, he can't escape, was the silliest fucking combination of words that he had ever heard uttered. Wasn't that funny? Why aren't you laughing, Gordon? It's a comedy show!

It's all a joke.

Do what you do worst, Gordie, ignore the feeling, hold your gun, and take action. Now's not the time. And he did, even if he did so poorly.

With a shaking hand, Gordon clutched his pistol and filled one of the assassins with lead. And the wall behind it. After four attempts. It worked, bottom line. Guns are simple like that -- so long as you keep trying, eventually you'll succeed.

Unlike Gordon's current, futile, situation. After the last enemy crumpled to the ground (Tommy's doing, if he was following the line of fire correctly), he turned to the hallway, lit by artificial light, but not the kind that warmed his skin.

Actually, Gordon did feel rather warm, but it wasn't from any of the nearby light fixtures. Rather, it was the warmth that overtakes one's body when they are preparing to eject digested sustenance from their stomach.

AKA, Gordon felt like he was going to vomit. Thankfully, he hadn't eaten much of anything for a long while. He'd be fine.

A hand rested on his shoulder, the left one, the side that was still intact, and Gordon turned to look up to Tommy, the same way everyone looked up to the other.

A while back, after they had finally reunited, Gordon had spent a good few minutes trying to form a proper apology, but how does someone apologize for a broken promise, a broken promise that led to a life-or-death scenario? That wasn't something you just waved away -- it would become formative to how Tommy saw him and how they interacted, and Gordon didn't want that to change.

Before he could get his words together and sorted, the same weight came upon his left shoulder.

"I -- I forgive you, Gordon." Simple.

And, surprisingly, sincere.

Now, they stood together, the same stabilizing presence to his side.

Dr. Coomer opened the sliding door, throwing him a strained smile. Bubby didn't force much of anything, not even his trademark scowl.

With long strides, the latter of the two entered through the doorway, gesturing for the others to follow behind.

"After you, Gordon," Coomer said. The politeness was unfitting for such a situation.

"Let's get this over with," Bubby sighed. He had the oddest methods of expressing concern.

Lastly, Tommy added, "Uh, we'll be there on the other side! I promise, Gordon!"

With a sickly nod, the wrong man in the right place took a step through the threshold, and as the darkness of the lights flickered in, he almost found the silence from the higher being funny.

And when the lights finally went out, nobody said much of anything, only the quiet sounds of the rustle of fabric and breathing as they waited in tension for something, anything to happen.

Which was also funny.

The entire situation was just _so_ hilarious. Here they were, obediently waiting for his doom like a broken dog with no other options, all standing in the dark together.

So, when he finally felt something press him down to the ground felt a silent weight, Gordon started laughing. Laughing at himself, laughing at God, laughing at the fact that, since Benrey deleted all the enemies, he realized that nothing was going to cut him open today.

But he'd still lose a limb. He'd still suffer. 'Cause that's what the game needed to progress -- that's what MD had told him. They had to play by the rules.

When the latches on his right arm loosened and clicked away from their place, when he felt the cold air of absolutely _nothing_ dig into his flesh, Gordon's laughter brought tears rolling down his cheeks.

Through the wheezing coming from his lungs and through the snap of his own humerus ( _funny_ ), Gordon heard the rustle of fabric come close to the side of his head, settling down next to him. The pain continued, but someone lifted his head into their lap, running their fingers through his hair and utilizing their opposing hand to wipe the tears streaming down his face.

As the last of his tendons went slack, right arm severed from his body and blood pooling below him, Gordon's consciousness wavered, eyes opening just enough to stare up to where the ceiling would have been.

If it weren't for the darkness (and his glasses being knocked from his face (and the blood loss)), he would have noticed he was face-to-face with his closest (and only) friends in his world, having had waited this time around,

and he would have thought about how funny it all was, seeing them with his own blood-soaked through to their knees.

\----

You probably could have stopped it, you know. He didn't have to feel that pain.

These creations can't feel -- they don't have the capability, it's impossible. And yet.

Is it that, perhaps, you've realized the extent of both their emotions and your own? That, when faced with the loss of your only friends, you finally accepted that you're terrified? Despite your repeated dismissals?

Are you scared of being alone again?

That's the thing about pets -- once you give them a name, you're bound to get attached.

\----

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

His entire body hurt in the most familiar way.

The light was too bright, his stomach churning, head pounding. Passing out from blood loss was the worst hangover Gordon would and had ever experienced.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?"

Someone's talking to him, which was odd, because he _knew_ no one is supposed to be with him yet. But, as his senses pieced themselves together, he found that not only could he hear a voice, but he could also feel two cold hands on the sides of his face.

"Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

_"Whaaaa -- tt, the fuck, are you talking about... ?"_

A snicker, a very, very familiar snicker, served as his reply, and Gordon's eyes shot open, despite the pain that throbbed through his skull. And though his body ached and his muscles screamed, the open wound still gnarled and mangled, he slumped himself forward into open arms, singular hand digging into the fabric as if the grip was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out and dying right on the filthy ground.

With tears mixing with the dirt and blood caked on his face, Gordon cried (though it was more of a croak), "I -- I thought you were fucking _dead_!"

It was a shame his face was buried in the guard's shoulder, 'cause if he had just looked up, he would have seen the typically corpse-grey skin take on a red tinge, a mixture of shock and embarrassment. He had knocked the joke right out of his lungs.

"Uh. No. Close but, uh, _wow_ do you stink, close but no cigar."

"Don't do that to me, fucking shit, dude...! Why? Do you have _any_ goddamn idea what that put me through? Like, christ! I thought it was all my fault!" Gordon's voice rasped, still sore from all of the previous events, but he still, somehow, roused the energy to be pissed. Talk about an anomaly.

Benrey, bless his soul, only grinned at his little outburst. Gordon was Gordon, and in the same way that Benrey was Benrey, their personalities were special, non-negotiable.

(Neither of them would have had it any other way.)

Gordon's questioning slowed and his grip loosened, prompting Benrey to finally respond.

"Uh, I wasn't vibing with our situation. So I left."

Energy depleted, Gordon replied, simply, "Elaborate."

That was a steep demand. "You were gonna get the big ol' chop."

A nod, felt against his neck, urged him to continue.

"And, you didn't wanna. Thought that I --" Benrey cringed, searching for the right words, "I thought that I caused it. Thought I was the bad that caused the bad. 'Cause, like, I got rid of the other bad, now I'm the only bad left."

"Didn't work," Gordon replied, voice muffled by the fabric. Seeing as he was missing three-fourths of a limb, no, it did not work. But he commended Benrey's attempt, and his struggle to explain. It was something, and that alone was a development that neither would have expected not too long ago.

In fact, it was all a little surprising, those two all huddled together as if they could close out the world if they tried hard enough. Were they not made to argue?

Digressing. They'd get a better explanation later, during a time when they were safe, when they were together, when Gordon didn't feel like he was dangling onto life and when Benrey didn't feel like such a clown, honk honk. A much calmer time would come to them, so long as they continued to move forward. That's how a plotline is supposed to work.

For now, though, Gordon hooked his hand underneath Benrey's bulletproof vest and leaned all of his weight forward and onto the guard. "You're soooo _fucking_ stupid, dude," he drawled out, annoyance missing from his tone. "You're _not_ bad, though..." He sighed.

"... Nah, I think you're probably one of the best fucking things here, so _please_ , don't leave me again," Gordon finally finished, tapering off his sentence at the tail end, as if that would disguise the weight of his words.

And what a declaration! It... wasn't really a 'declaration', no, more of a mumble, but it still made Benrey's stomach-esque organ do a literal flip. If Gordon could say it, then maybe it was true. Maybe he wasn't all that bad, and maybe, just maybe, he'd find a way to be 'good'.

But, really, they should be going -- without progress, they'd run a higher chance of something horrible crashing down upon them. Historically, that's how things worked 'round there; they get a brief break, then the gates of hell swing on open. Less of gates, actually; they were more like revolving doors.

There was one way out, and that way was forward. So, with an awkward grasp on the slumped-over man, Benrey heaved and hoisted him upwards, letting Gordon's weight rest against an arm he braced across his back, his only remaining arm locked around the other's neck.

If Benrey closed his eyes and blocked out the putrid scent of a man bleeding out, it was almost like they were hugging again. Maybe they could remake this, later on, with less of the grime...? He shouldn't test his luck.

Equipping his _'passport'_ to his hand (the obnoxiously powerful modded gun he so dearly missed using, waiting alone in the next load area over), Benrey adjusted his stance to support his only slightly conscious passenger, staggering their steps to balance the weight evenly.

Over the sandy hills, pressing close to the walls, shooting before they lost the chance. It was difficult, considering the added weight, but Benrey never once thought of it as a burden.

Some things are worth the work.

Gordon's head slumped forward, almost bringing his upper body down with it, if it weren't for a stabilizing hand that Benrey placed on the chest plate of the HEV suit.

"Dude. No dying on me, here. It's a big no-no." The monotony of his tone was ever so slightly soured with worry as he shook Gordon in an attempt to catch his attention.

"Yeah," Gordon replied, finally leaning back to a standing position, "No-no, no dying. I already knew that. You _should_ have known that."

"I get it. Put the fuckin' dunce cap on me already. Never gonna try helping _you_ again."

Gordon snorted; a laugh that failed to be suppressed. "... We wouldn't even need to make a new hat, just... write 'dunce' on your helmet."

"Nuh-nuh-nuh. And what hand're you gonna write it with, Mr. Smart-Not-Dunce?" No malice was found in the words, but after they had left his mouth, Benrey might have considered the possibility for an offense.

Instead, Gordon wheezed.

"I'll get Tommy to do it for me."

" _No_. You -- he wouldn't do it, Feetman. Huge fuckin' error in your game plan."

The conversation must have been helping Gordon, holding him into consciousness for the sake of banter, 'cause he straightened up a little more, leaning his head against Benrey. "He totally would. Tommy's cool. Tommy _loves_ my cool plans."

"Noooo. More -- more like lame-ass plans. Never fun. Got the most boring ideas all up in that little smart guy skull. Nothing like ol' Benny's, uh, entrepreneur brain."

"Benzos."

"Whuh?"

"Like, Bezos and Benrey. You said you were an entrepreneur."

Before Benrey could think of a witty reply, probably pointing out that that's a really low blow to make (he's bad, but he's not _that_ bad of a person), a buzzing erupted in Gordon's skull, irritating his headache and making him wince.

_> > MD: How the fuck did the AI learn who fucking Jeff Bezos is_

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >> MD: you little shits will learn whatever you want, completely outside of the information that i've specifically provided for you to learn, a feat that no modern machine has yet achieved,
> 
> and you used this power to learn about capitalists and homosexuality???????
> 
> tumblr: qr--code


	21. but you'll look sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol two months later. sorry folks i'm a busy fella, real busy begging rich organizations to give me money in the form of essays so i can go to college lol

"So. Uh, IDK. How to do this. The blood's supposed to be inside you, right?"

"In most scenarios? Yeah."

"So I gotta... wrap it? Up the DEF?"

"... What? Yes, of course you're supposed to wrap it, so, y' know, I don't bleed out?"

Benrey placed a hand to his chin, examining the stump that was left of Gordon's arm. Their trek to where they supposed the science team was most likely waiting was stopped short. Unfortunately, Gordon had become increasingly more anxious that maybe he was losing a little _too_ much blood, despite their efforts to elevate the wound and provide hemodynamic stability.

Thankfully, he remained somewhat conscious. All Benrey had to do was continue to spout stupid bullshittery and Gordon would cling to the light just for the sake of being a smartass. Priorities? Impeccable.

But there was a lot of blood. That was undeniable. The patient wasn't going to go into shock (he seemed far too used to the pain for something as silly as that), but if Gordon were to fall asleep at a time like this, they would be in severe danger.

Or, more like Gordon would be in severe danger. Benrey hadn't died yet, and he wasn't about to start. Sometimes, the bad guy doesn't have to die. Consider this his redemption, perhaps. For a redemption arc, though, he would have to save the protagonist. A protagonist whose anatomy he was the farthest thing from familiar with. So, he had propped Gordon up against an alley wall, preparing for makeshift intensive care.

"I -- can I just... ?" Benrey reached out to the wound as Gordon dozed, body slumped. Maybe he could just... pull the flesh back together...?

_!psay Barney Calhoun, Gordon Freeman_

_> > MD: Are you stupid? No! Drop your hand!_

Benrey could only obey, leaning back on his heels and raising his palms in the universal sign for surrender. He had heard this voice before, no doubt. Back when he had last tried to save the day. Was it here to end him again?

_> > MD: A tourniquet, and slap him awake while you're at it, christ._

He didn't know what the fuck a 'turn-o-ket' was, but he could do the other thing.

With a shaky hand, he patted the side of Gordon's face.

Okay, maybe the other thing wasn't as easy as he thought it would be. It wasn't simple, y' know, just slapping your best bro like that. He didn't wanna hurt him!

_> > MD: Wake him up or I'll drop a rock on you both. Mercy kill._

Benrey smacked Gordon's glasses off.

_> > MD: There-we-go!_

The man startled awake, reaching for a gun with a hand that wasn't there, but at least he was up. Before he could go on struggling and end up hurting himself, Benrey pushed him down by the shoulders, listening on to the voice inside his head, watching as Gordon registered the commands as well.

_> > MD: Remove the remaining armour._

Benrey's brows furrowed under his helmet. _What_ armour? All of it? Just one piece? If so, which part?

_> > MD: ... The arm armour._

Ah. The specifying definitely assisted in his registration of the words. He pulled at the singular latch remaining on Gordon's bicep, listening for alerts as the drowsy man hissed at the sudden contact then raised his arm to assist in the process. The torn and battered metal fell to the hot cement with a resounding clatter, and both of them jolted at the sound.

"Uh. Check that off the quest list," Benrey said to no one in particular (though they both knew someone was listening), forcing his heart-organ's beat rate to slow enough to a point where his hands would still.

_> > MD: That mess isn't gonna stop bleeding until you reach a medkit, Gordie, and that's a ways off._

>> MD: So, you can either tough it out like you usually do, or you can trust Barney -- Betty, excuse me, to do you a favour and get his grimy hands all up in your arm meat.

Despite his mental wish that MD had found honestly any other way to describe it, Gordon had already settled his answer. He took a breath in, steeling his nerves for the flare of pain they were about to endure, and gave Benrey a tired smile. "When's the last time you washed the Doritos dust off your hands?"

"Oh," he smacked his lips, grinning back, "dude, it's like a whole 'nother layer of Doritos skin on these mitts. Now show me your flesh bits."

>> MD: I hate bearing witness to this. Do either of you know that?

Gordon lifted his stump, allowing the severed end to face Benrey, the guard carefully folding his hands under the limb, fingers pressing into the fabric. If it weren't for the immense pain and nausea pulsing through his entire body, the slight pressure and roll of his hands would have somewhat comforting.

The skin around the flesh was as expected -- red and puffy, inflammation set in. As Benrey leaned in to search for any invasive materials that may have found their way into the wound, though, he noticed a foul, almost sweet scent wafting between the expected overwhelming metallic of blood.

"You got a scent like a, fuckin'... rotten candy. Is that, uh, normal?"

Gordon's brows furrowed and he sniffed the air around them.

>> MD: Infections stink, literally. You said it was sweet? Any green gunk in that arm?

When Benrey angled the arm towards the sun and inspected it once more, he found that, sure enough, there was a gross green pus filming over parts of Gordon's missing limb. Was he supposed to remove that? With what? His bare hands?

>> MD: Yes? Pseudomonas. You've got an iiiinfection, Gordie. Buffy, watch his breathing, and give him any antibiotics you find in med stations. It's, to be blunt, potentially life-threatening.

Gordon sputtered. He had died in many ways, felt pain indescribable, but dying covered in his own vomit and tears, slow and uncertain, sounded particularly awful. And what about the glitches? What about the warning? What about --

>> MD: But. I am... not keen on letting you go so soon. You'll need fabric for a tourniquet. Bastard, any ideas?

And then Gordon was all wrapped up and ready to rumble, following a good 40 minutes of painstaking instructions from a disembodied voice. ("No, you can't just glue the wound shut! Fucking -- where did you get Elmer's? Is there even a model for that in-game? What kind of brand deal...?")

The tourniquet was sub-par, something any medical professional would probably reel at the sight of, but it... it worked. If the blood flow was slowed, then it worked. Even if it was shoddily constructed from Benrey's tie, a stray stick, and one of his sleeves.

To give a more accurate depiction of just how _fucked_ the duo looked -- imagine a security guard, shirt untucked, left sleeve ripped off, helmet slightly concave, completely disoriented. His friend (friend? wow, okay), covered from head to toe in blood and dirt, hair slicked down from grease build-up, and, most notably, the missing limb. Funny. If they shared, they could've made a full shirt sleeve between the two of them.

Gordon, using his singular hand, would employ prior knowledge and point out the direction they needed to head, and Benrey would pilot them in turn. It was symbiosis, working together for the greater good. And, admittedly, being close to one another again was... nice. A reminder that, hell or high water, they always seemed to stumble through it, falling into each other's arms at the end.

"Yeah, can you just... gimme a hand? I don't think I can pull myself into the pipe."

"Fuckin', Gordon manlet moments? Real? Real shit."

"What -- that's stupid, dude. I'm _missing an arm_ , that's why, not 'cause of -- don't laugh, I am _injured_."

The shape of the pipe caused Benrey's chuckles to reverberate down and back, like the main hall of a church, amplifying the noise as it went. And, as it echoed (echo!) towards the two once more, it caused Benrey to cackle harder, peering out the edge of the tunnel to watch Gordon struggle to boost himself up. Maybe it wasn't as funny to Gordon, who kept sliding back down to the dirt, but seeing his face peeking over the edge every few seconds, then fall back down, _was_ rather humorous to anyone else.

Then, a tinny, stuttering voice came from the other end.

_"Mister -- Gordon!!"_

Benrey wrapped his hands around Gordon's forearm and leaned back to hoist him into the metal tube. They slid around, reorganizing themselves in the compact space so that Gordon was once again leading the way, Boper keeping watch that he could stay up properly in such a tight space -- crawling was much harder when missing a limb, and as much as he enjoyed mocking, he wasn't exactly fond of watching Gordon in pain. Surprising!

The leader took a look down a left turn in the pipe, then continued forward, tilting his head to the grate they were closing in on. No doubt, there was a quiet shuffling of fabric coming from the area, not resulting from either of them, so, reasonably, it should be Tommy.

Right?

It had to be Tommy, Gordon told himself, sliding up to the grate and peering down at the area as he tried to scan the room. Tommy didn't have any of those -- those fucked distortions of what they truly were, right? The lab coat that could just barely be seen through the metal was turned away, though, so it could've been _anyone_. It could've been Bubby, Coomer. Or, literally anything else, just waiting for the chance to rip his throat out from his body.

Benrey placed a hand on his back, and Gordon jolted, smacking his head on the top of the pipe with a strangled shout.

"G-Gordon? Is that you?" came the voice below them.

It sounded like Tommy, _looked_ like Tommy, so it had to be Tommy. Knock on wood.

Lacking the same hesitation as his companion, Benrey slammed into the grate with his shoulder, knocking it out and falling to the ground with it, shouting, _"TOMMY."_

Bad habits die hard.

Gordon took a more relaxed approach to getting down, considering that, if he fell to the floor in a state like this, he might start crying from the pain. He wasn't fond of the idea of crying right now, not because he was too prideful to bawl in front of his colleagues (it was a little too late to be shy), but rather, if he started crying, he didn't think he could ever bring himself to stop. Whoops!

Finally, back on his feet, Gordon stood face-to-face with Benrey, lifting Tommy by the waist, doing a little spin-and-cackle. The hugging was _quite_ the sight, Benrey trying as hard as he could to heave the much taller man as far as he could upwards, not unlike an elementary-schooler trying to carry chairs for the teacher.

It gave him an odd feeling, that squeezing feeling in his lungs, seeing his friends appear so joyful. The urge to join in pulled at him, but _god_ , did he look and feel downright disgusting at the moment.

Finally, Benrey must've tired himself out, because he plopped Tommy down on the ground, returning to Gordon's side and, in turn, returning his arm to its resting place across the plane of Gordon's back. The squeezing in his lungs plummeted in his torso down to a knot in his stomach. It was a known fact now, that the science team would help him, that they would assist him where he needed it, but _god_ , he wished and prayed that, for once in his many lives, _he_ wasn't the liability. He wished that he hadn't felt death, wished that none of his friends had seen him die, wished that he hadn't bonded with the experiences, forming him into an idol of what death represented for all of them.

So, Gordon didn't say much of anything. He watched Benrey and Tommy catch up on missed time, laughing and jesting and making a ruckus like they always did, and Gordon watched Benrey's odd behaviours, limbs far too long for his torso bouncing with excitement, a crooked grin showing more snarl than a smile, chest still and without breath.

Gordon yearned for a time, the clock turned forwards, when they would be their oddball selves, and they would do so unabashedly and uninhibited. Gordon yearned.

For what, he wasn't quite sure. Identity? Self? Comfort? Dare he say, _affection_? Gross.

Benrey let out another supervillain laugh as Gordon packed up the entire mental suitcase, chained it shut, and threw it into the depths of hell.

"And, I... Oh! Mr. Gordon! Your -- You got your arm all bandaged up! And, we went through all that trouble of gathering cloth while you were gone, too! Darn," Tommy said,

"Yeah, Benrey gave me a hand with it. No pun intended," Gordon replies, "... You did that? For me?"

"Well, why else would we rip up a bunch of bloody lab coats, Mr. Gordon?"

"I can't help but feel that's, y' know, unsanitary."

Tommy pressed his lips in a thin line like he was remembering something he forgot. As endearing as it was, Gordon wasn't about to let them clog up his open wound with dead people clothes (yet).

>> MD: Random encounter over, plot exploration continues. Also, your buddy is having a minor crisis in the next room. Help him to increase EXP.

Gordon furrowed his brow in spite of his begrudging obedience. "Dude, you don't have to shove the video game metaphors down my throat. It's, like, kind of demeaning."

>> MD: I'm helping. I'm keeping you moving at the right pace.

They both must've forgotten Benrey's listening in, because there was an in-sync pair of gasped when he shouted to the ceiling, "Keepin' us on the side-scroll screen. I getchaaaa. I'm picking up what you're putting down."

>> MD: Yah. Boober's got it. Go too slow, something horrible and grotesque will gut you alive and I'll be unable to bring you back and you'll be stuck in video game purgatory. Video game inferno. Video game limbo.

"So, get high stepping, is what you're saying." Metaphors sucked.

>> MD: I... no. Don't. Not yet. It's too early for that, the information isn't complete.

Gordon breathed a sigh through his nostrils and went to go help Bubby through yet another existential crisis. Funny how the turntables.

\----

The group led themselves through the silent corridors of Black Mesa, their footsteps echoing clearer without the rumbling of hidden creatures that wanted to gut them alive. Gordon was still listening, of course, considering that doppelganger errors might've chosen any turn to jump them, but since they had begun to close in on the surface, their surroundings had only the rumbling of broken machines.

And the group's stupid little conversations. Naturally.

"I am feeling a tad bit peckish, Gordon!"

"Gordon, I'm hungry too," Bubby agreed.

The halls leading out of the facility had a strange liminal aura to them, lacking the blood and gore of previous runs. All that remained was the pre-set clutter and shattered glass. More like a post-apocalyptic scene than anything else.

"We haven't eaten in a-fucking-while, unless you count whatever Benrey does to corpses. Surprised I'm only hearing complaints now, though."

Tommy tilted his head. "There hasn't really been much food. If -- if I remember correctly, none at all?"

Gordon utilized his unmangled shoulder to bust open a particularly difficult door, breathing in through his nose when fresh air was on the opposing side. "Yeah, man, you're... right? Not a single sight of food this whole time. Is that bad?"

_!psay Gordon Freeman_

>> MD: Why would you need to eat?

The outdoors had that same mid-day blue to it. Same as ever, when they entered this area. The scent of the canyons was of dirt heated under the sun, nothing unexpected. Nothing new, nothing notable about the alien invasion.

"'Cause who _doesn't_ need to eat? We gotta get the energy to keep moving and jumping and running from things that are trying to kill us from somewhere, even with the, uh, the soda," He said.

>> MD: Au contraire, mon frère. You're only hungry 'cause your brain told you to be. You haven't been thinking about it up until now.

Gordon thought back to the cactus that he (very unfortunately) couldn't consume, back in, what was it? The first run?

>> MD: Your buddies must've just remembered. Some information pulled from the database. Not to pull the existence rug from under your feet or anything, but your brain is making everything up. Has been from the start.

_> > MD: Hey, did you know you can use paper airplanes to teach how algorithms work? Funny._

Dr. Coomer leaned down over a particularly high ledge. When had he gotten up there? "Gordon, you'll be pleased to know that the writhing mass of helicopters is no longer in the canyon! You ought to thank Barnabas!"

Then, a far off, "Yeah, you should thank your bestest friend."

Something about the wind of the canyon made everything feel so, so far from him. Those steps had to have been miles. Tap-tap. No more dress shoes on linoleum. Maybe that was the blood loss talking -- he really should have swapped out the bandages when Tommy offered.

>> MD: Digressing. You're under the control of whatever your brain, or rather, the scripts are telling you to do. What's that face for? I thought you wanted more information.

"'M not making a face. Just feeling a little queazy," Gordon said, gripping the red rock walls. He slid down to the ground.

>> MD: Now that's ironically funny. Just stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about all of it. I never programmed you to do that -- it's just the AI filling in gaps.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

>> MD: It's interesting to see what your consciousness prioritized enough to create. That breeze that you keep swaying with?

Then, a mighty gust tossed his matted hair across the lenses of his glasses.

>> MD: It's not real. Why do you want wind in particular so fucking badly? The paper airplanes can't fly on it, considering its unreality.

He didn't have time for this, sitting around. Reckless behavior.

>> MD: I just. Don't. Understand.

There are little things about the environment that one notices when the stability of said environment is put into question. Think of it on par with the hyperawareness of fear -- before the adrenaline is released by the neurotransmitters, the amygdala (event trigger) speeds up the heart rate and breathing (.wav) of the subject (freeman_01), the sympathetic systems respond, and then the body is piecing apart their surroundings for anomalies.

Unfortunately, as Gordon was focusing only on blocking out the even-paced, echoing loudspeaker in his mind, eyes screwed shut and sliding to the ground, the most obvious place of attack was largely ignored.

Something solid knocked into the knee of his armour and his eyes shot open, choking on his own breath.

"Whoa. You're looking like a fuckin'... tomato. All red and shit." Gordon cracked an eye open to watch Benrey no-clip through the wall, hands first, then leaning his torso out as if it was a window. "Or a potato. Totato-Potato. I-D-K."

"I am personally asking you to cut the unreality shit. Or I'll -- I'm gonna cut some shit."

"Bet."

Gordon paused, and if it were physically possible, he furrowed his brow inwards more. "Oh my god, there's nothing to even cut with. Hell world."

Everyone's favourite guard man pointed his index at him and raised a brow in the universal sign for 'now you're catching on', but continued on to obey what Gordon had asked, placing his palms firmly in the dirt wall and phasing through the polygons of the wall. Once on the other side, he slid down next to Gordon, brow still raised. Inquiring. Not as if he cared or anything lame like that.

"How ya' living, Gordos," Benrey asked. It might not have been a question, or maybe it was rhetorical. Difficult to tell, considering that Benrey drained nearly all accentuation from his tone.

The voice in Gordon's head paused, giving him a second to bite back. "Not living at _all_ , dude, unless you consider living a lie to be living. And, and at that point, what's even the purpose?"

>> MD: Been wondering the same thing?

Something’s in his brain. He took another stuttering inhale. Benrey's brow arched further. "And I get it, I've fucking gutted myself over this, literally! This stupid family, stupid connections, but now that I know, without a doubt, that it's a not only god damned game, but we aren't even supposed to exist in this stupid game?" His face heated up, eyes stinging. The pain of his headache dulled the throb of his missing arm. "Fuck, dude, how am I supposed to handle the information that -- that no matter what I do," he smacked his head against the wall, "no matter how many times I die," another hit of skull against rock, "no matter what I edit," a final hit, with more force, "I can't change anything in a world where we're not supposed to exist."

Before he could knock his brain around once more (even number of tap-tap-tap-taps, good luck, said his paranoid mind), Benrey no-clipped his arm through the wall and propped him upwards.

"Bro, slow the fuck down a lil'. You're overloading your puny scientist brain," Benrey said, shoving Gordon's head forward just a bit.

(Gordon also wasn't thinking about how much he missed Benrey's presence when he left, how he never wanted to feel that crushing dread again, how nice it felt, sitting next to the most annoyingly endearing person he had ever met. He also wasn't thinking about the hand propping him up, and the care he took, despite their surroundings being anything but careful. Or the way his stomach turned from something other than rage. None of it.)

"So, are you ready for some serious advice from the one-and-only Security Guard Boper? And, uh, by serious, I mean 'seriously cool'."

Gordon snorted through his rage and leaned back into the hand. "I don't know if I actually want this advice."

"No-no-no-no, you do."

"Hm."

"I double-dog dare you to ask me. Uh, please."

He waved his singular hand to prompt him to continue.

Shuffling from the wall and leaning back on the balls of his feet, Benrey stated, "I've been all up changing things. We've got autonautonaty all up in here."

"Yeah, you have, but, one, we're not the same, and two, how do we know we can change the _right_ things? Oh, and three, it's pronounced 'autonomy'."

"Mhh." Benrey visibly swallowed. "I just do what feels right to be doing."

There was a myth created in the world of psychology that fundamentally altered the way that people consider their personalities -- the 'right brain' acting as the side that is spontaneous, fun, artistic, and the 'left brain' acting as the side that is logical, analytical, accurate. It was all straight bullshit, of course, both sides of the brain are used, despite the differences in structure, but it was, perhaps, a good comparison of how two differing personalities can form a whole.

"I can't fuckin' say any of this feels _'right'_ , like, god, I'm slumped against a wall, mental distress up to here," Gordon pointed to his temple, "I'm missing an arm, and I'm having yet another existential crisis. What, pray tell, is supposed to feel right about this?"

He knew he had gotten too mean when Benrey's arm phased back out from the wall and the man seemed to recede into himself, frowning hard enough to emphasize the wrinkles spanning from his nose to mouth ( _did you know those were called 'nasolabial folds'? I couldn't bring myself to use that word, because every time I typed it out, I kept thinking, "ha ha nose labia"_ ).

Then, Benrey curled inwards further and began to shift into the wall.

"Whoa, no, no! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get snappy, shit!" He reached out, wrapping his hand around Benrey's arm before he could disappear. "I'm -- don't leave me here, please? Please don't leave Gordon alone?"

Benrey's face just slightly stuck out from the wall, something akin to those bread cat memes. "Holy shit, dude."

Gordon pulled on Benrey's arms with more force, then, when that failed, he balled his fist in the fabric of his Black Mesa Issued Dress Shirt™ (blood-stained, limited edition).

Must've done something, because Benrey leaned back to his original position, face now unfurrowed and smiling. "Broooo, IIRC, that's the first time you've apologized to your best buddy."

Shocking. Wasn't it always the other way around?

"An' we're hugging? Shit, Feetman, I should've been doing this earlier."

"This isn't a hug." It was absolutely a hug. Arm ‘round body. A hug that smelt like boiling shit.

"What's all this, then? Huh? Fucking, just chilling with you bro? You don't bleed on just any bro, bro. Duhhhh," Benrey said. "All apologizing, hugging, cuddling, dude, we are better than bros."

Oh, oh no. There's only one thing that's a higher tier than Bros. Oh lord, Gordon felt jittery. Was he okay with being better than bros? Okay, yes, that wasn't a valid question at this point, he was way too far past the 'no homo' stage (pondering how nicely you and your buddy's personalities compared at such length struggled to be platonic), and as far as he could tell, Benrey never had a 'no homo' stage in his entire questionable life. Shit, they're going hyperspeed past bros at this rate. Would it be too soon to ask Benrey what he thought of single fathers?

"We are. Brofriends."

_> > MD: I am begging you two to shut the fuck UP_

They were brofriends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I"M NOT GONNA DO A TWO MONTH WAIT AGAIN HELL OR HIGH WATER!!!!!!!
> 
> tumblr: qr--code


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